Valentin Dobrotivý (1942) www.czfilm.eu
Monday, December 26, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Bhanwar
Anoop loves Roopa and will do anything to marry her but she has some doubts about him. He manages to convince her about his love and she agrees. After being hospitalized due to an accident, when she returns home, he comes to visit her and is shocked to find her in bed with Ravi. She refuses to clarify anything and it is up to Anoop to decide about his life.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Johnson's Head-To-Toe Washcloth, 14-Count Washcloths (Pack of 6)
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Saturday, December 10, 2011
Johnson's Head-To-Toe Washcloth, 14-Count Washcloths (Pack of 6)
!±8± Johnson's Head-To-Toe Washcloth, 14-Count Washcloths (Pack of 6)
- Best for baby, best for you
- Gentle cloths for cleansing baby's hair and skin
More Specification..!!
Johnson's Head-To-Toe Washcloth, 14-Count Washcloths (Pack of 6)
Saturday, December 3, 2011
How Questions Can Help You Focus
Focus. That is the single most important ability determinant of your success. The lack of it is also the single most common problem faced by a major portion of the general populace.
The average person cannot focus his or her mind on any one thought, task or thing for extended periods of time if he or she wants to.
Just try this - picture a circle of any colour you choose for at least 68 seconds. That's only 8 seconds over a minute. Do this without letting any other stray thoughts, images or inner voices intrude in your mind. Not even one speckle of a thought should creep in your mind, other than that circle of your favourite colour centered in your imagination.
Try it now!
Ouch! Treacherously difficult, isn't it?
I notice a few things after several unyielding trials at meditation and concentration exercises.
If I am focusing on an image or visual object in my mind, that visual object or image tends to "morph" into something else, shifting shapes, changing colours and moving about with a life of its own.
I think that this stems from our mind being bored by our forcing it to concentrate on only one perception at a time, after having been exposed to a life-time of perceptual cognitive bombardment.
It just fights to let other thoughts and perceptions come in to kill its boredom, like a baby that is quickly bored by one toy and wants to play with the next.
If I am trying to focus on a word, a principle, a concept or idea, the intangibility of that thought and vagueness thereof simply demands other related (and un-related) ideas and concepts to flood into my mind, thus killing my concentration exercise.
Either way, I'm trapped.
The supreme kind of focus that is achieved by meditators and the highly successful (meditators are not necessarily highly successful, and vice-versa) only comes about through disciplined training and diligent daily practice.
But I'm not going to tell you to go through that kind of rigorous training to sharpen your focus until it becomes as a laser beam.
Most people do not have the time nor the stamina to take the torturous path braved by those few. Maybe you're one of them, like me, maybe you're not.
Don't worry if you're from the previous group. It's not now, but not never either, just, perhaps another time for you.
But do we really need that kind of perfect and supreme concentration ability? To be able to only think one thought and let no other, not one inkling, come in? To focus so deeply and intently on one idea and be immune to distractions both inner and outer?
The answer is no. We don't have to shave our heads bald and don robes to sharpen our mind. There is a way for you to help yourself focus your mind and all your resources on achieving a certain objective when you really, really need to.
It is through questions.
That's it. Just ask yourself questions about, relevant and pertaining to the thought, idea or thing you want to focus on. Only questions relevant to the object of your focus. Nothing that strays too far away from the theme or subject matter.
Questions are naturally thought focusers. That means, by their very nature, questions are designed to make your thoughts focus on what is being asked about.
Just think of riddles or puzzles. I just got one in my email concerning the 3rd word in the English language that ends in "gry".
Here it goes:
"There are 3 words in the English language that end in 'gry'. One is angry and the other is hungry. Everyone knows what the 3rd word is, and everyone uses it every day. If you listened carefully, I've already told you what it is. What is the 3rd word?"
The question "What is the 3rd word?" got my mind thinking so hard, and all my thoughts, for that moment, so focused and intent on finding the elusive answer to that puzzle that it distracted me from the actual answer itself that is already presented to my face (for the answer, go do a search on Google).
Or think back to a time when you were doing an English comprehension paper. I can recall myself doing my 'O' Level English Comprehension Examination paper. The article has got something to do with early child development and the human brain.
When you were trying to answer the questions, what do you do? You were searching for the answer in the comprehension article, right?
Or if it was a thinking-type question, you were also searching for the answer in your mind, in your memory, trying to find related ideas and concepts that could somehow match what the comprehension question demands.
If you were observant, I've already told you the purpose of focusing.
Okay, I won't play riddles with you. The chief purpose of concentration or focus is to search for something. You want to search for something, you focus on it.
Scholars, monks, philosophers, thinkers and writers who are in search of what they hold to be the Ultimate Truth, focus on it in order to find it. Some fail, some succeed; and the difference between the two is how much they know about what they are actually focusing on (or searching for) and why.
So here's one tip to help you focus better:
KNOW what it is you want to achieve with your focusing. What are you searching for? Where are you heading for?
How does one KNOW? How does one attain knowledge of something? One asks. Therefore, questions help one focus.
For example, you want to focus on a book that you're reading. You can't seem to understand what it is about, either because the author sucks or you are not focusing well enough on the contents and ideas presented.
Let's assume it's the latter case.
First, ask yourself some questions about WHAT information or knowledge that you want to extract from reading this book.
Second, think about HOW you're going to go about and retrieve that information or knowledge that you're seeking in the book.
Third, just for added motivation, ask WHY you want to or need to have that knowledge or information you're searching for in the book.
Fourth, formulate a few What, Why, How, Who, Where, When questions (whatever applies) to get you into "Search mode"; pretty much like a search engine, in order to get you to FOCUS on only those parts of the book that can provide you with the answers to your questions.
While you notice the CAPS that I wrote in the previous few paragraphs, do you see the connection now between focusing, searching for answers and asking questions?
Or let's say you're doing one of those concentrating-on-an-object exercises. You know, like candles, fruits, pictures and stuff. I don't know what the purpose for these kinds of exercises is, other than that they help you train your mind to focus, somehow, albeit on seemingly unconstructive things.
First, ask yourself WHAT that thing actually is (I realise how silly this sounds, but I have a gut inner feeling that I'm on the right track, and I trust my intuition very, very much, and I don't want to betray it). Okay, so, it's an apple. Ask yourself what it is that makes an apple, an apple. What are the elements constituting an apple that determines it to be an apple.
Second, ask yourself HOW an apple becomes the way it is. Think about how it was originally planted in the Earth as a seed. Think about how it grows, with the proper nourishment of sunlight, water, minerals, nutrients and other things you learn in high school science.
Third, think about WHY an apple exists. (Laughing out Loud) This is where you can get existential-philosophical. What purpose does it serve in our reality? In this world? In the universe? Ask why is it red? Or green? Why is it juicy and scrunchy? Why is it sweet? What makes it so?
Fourth, generate more questions surrounding that apple. The more you ask, the more you'll find that you're thinking deeper and deeper about that apple, and while you're thinking deeply about it, you're actually focusing on it, and you've exercised your focusing abilities, and hence have enhanced it, by an incremental percentage; and I think if you're focusing on it hard enough, you might just feel compelled to grab it and take a MUNCH!
Fascinating, isn't it?
I'll end this article with a few Meta-Questions:
Why must I focus on the most constructive thought at any given moment?
How can I focus on the most constructive thought at any given moment?
What if I am already focusing on the most constructive thought at any given moment?
How do I know I am focusing on the most constructive thought at any one time?
How soon can I be able to easily focus on the most constructive thought at any given time?
What is my purpose for focusing my mind on this thought I am thinking now?
How can I know that my purpose for focusing my mind on this thought I am thinking now is positive, constructive, optimal and serves to better my condition in the best possible way?
What am I really searching or seeking for while I am focusing on this thought?
What am I focusing on right now? (Ask this question from time to time, to keep track of your thoughts. Most people spend 99% of their time letting thoughts pass in their mind unchecked)
Why am I focusing on this thought right now?
Can you think of more questions already?
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Registered Nuts - A Night in the Life of an ER Nurse
I've ceased with the pre-shift ritual of meditating in my parked truck along with a soothing piece of music. No more prayers to God en route to work asking for more patience, more humanity, more understanding. I have accepted the fact that it will be no different than any other night in the Emergency Department, no matter if I blare Yanni's rancid piano etudes or make a promise to God to pass out my own body parts to the discharged patients as they leave. Nothing will change. I use to look forward to making a difference in someone's life, helping a poor soul whose body has given out. Those moments are few and far between now. Instead, I resign myself to the fact that the next 12 hours will be spent pasting a fake smile on a tired body, going through the motions of caring, repeating ready-made lines of false concern and giving out medical advice that fall on deaf ears. I use to feel important in my role as Charge Nurse at a major ER of an inner-city charity hospital. Now, as I sit in my truck at 6:45 in the evening, gangster rap blaring, I send out a quick impromptu message to God..... "Please God, allow me the opportunity to be gainfully employed 12 hours from now."
7:02 PM-
I receive a quick report of the clingons and leftovers who haven't made it out of the department by change of shift and to no surprise to myself and the night crew, a few names are all too familiar and the reports of their latest "illness" easily recitable from memory. The usual apologies from the day crew for not getting them out before we arrived go unnoticed. A shrill screech from one of the psych beds startles no one. We all just look up from within the "safe" confines of the nursing station, confirm that our overweight security force is camped out beside the room, shake our heads briefly and go on about our business. We go through the ritual of taking our own baseline vital signs, popping a few Xanax and removing sharp objects from our pockets. Patient safety is important and we wouldn't want to accidentally stab one of them repeatedly in the chest.
7:17 PM-
My primary job aside from direct patient care is triage. Initial interview, vital signs, brief medical history, current medical problem, current medications, height, weight etc etc. My first of 35 or so fits the typical profile of this or any other ER in the country. 40 year old, female, morbidly obese, diabetic, hypertensive, multiple psych meds, very little English, less common sense, no means to pay. She complains of the usual nausea, vomiting, diarrhea and generalized abdominal pain. She's already spent thousands of dollars of other people's money last week for the same complaint. She didn't fill her scripts, didn't follow up with her Gastroenterologist as requested and by no means was this 300 + lb, truffle hunting leech going to alter her diet one iota in order to prevent another attack of diverticulitis. Her idea of a "Clear Liquid Diet" was a bucket of chicken and bowl of menudo an hour prior to her arrival. So here she is, totally oblivious as to why she is still sick. Non-compliant with her meds, non-compliant with the discharge instructions, follow up or diet instructions, which included a bland, low-fat, liquid diet for a few days until she was able to tolerate semi-solid/or solid food.
She bitches profusely when she is not brought straight back and put into a bed, instead she is sent back out to the waiting area for a lengthy wait. We are full and busy with the truly "emergent" patients but she can't seem to fathom this. She barrels through the exit door, into the waiting area calling me every name in the book (in Spanish) and swearing to never come back again. "PENDEJO!", she mutters. Oh, she'll be back.
"NEXT"!
7:31 PM-
My 3rd patient is a 23-year-old mother of 3, the oldest being 10. She has somehow mistaken our "EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT" for a pediatric clinic and wants her brood "checked out" because they feel "hot." No temperature ever taken at home, no Tylenol or Motrin given before the decision was made to spend 00.00 of other people's money and to waste our time babysitting 3 snot-nosed, unkempt ankle-biters who are no more sicker than the man in the moon. I usher them one at a time onto a scale for weights and am not surprised that each is twice the size they should be at their particular ages. One, I have to pry finger foods and a "Big Gulp" from their obstinate little mitts prior to the weight so as not to inadvertently add 5 lbs to his already triple digit reading. The electronic scale beeps incessantly and reads, "ONE AT A TIME, PLEASE."(Ok, not really) With all their vitals being normal they are ushered out into the waiting area where they eagerly pounce on the furniture and run around like the defensive line for the Attention Deficits.
I am verbally attacked by my obese belly pain lady, who has "been waiting for hours" (uh, how about 20 minutes). I instantly notice the "positive Cheetos sign" on her fingers and around her lips and remind her that the sickest are seen first and to have a seat. She tosses me a "Pincha Pendejo" and rumbles back to her seat. I sneak in a quick call to God asking that he makes sure she looks before she plops back down in her chair(s). I can hear the intercom announcer now, "CODE BLUE TRAUMA, ER WAITING ROOM." I mentally picture the scenario of the code team spending the next hour removing baby Julio from the rectum of a 300-lb verbally abusive Hispanic woman.
"NEXT"!!
9:21 PM-
I've survived the dinner crowd with my job intact and make my way back to the treatment area to assist the rest of my team in the treatment of the patients who were lucky enough to make it back ahead of the non-emergent riff-raff. I make my way to the EMS radio station when I hear....."Unit 842 code 2 patient report"....we have a 102 year old nursing home patient,....found unresponsive on the floor....no IV....she's now awake, combative, confused, covered in stool, incontinent of urine, blah, blah, blah..." The report from the nursing home prior to her EMS transport reveals that this patient had a tendency to "dig out stool from her rectum when constipated." "Oh, that's just friggin lovely"
9:25 PM-
The waiting room intercom a buzz......"I beeen waiting for 10 hours, you pendejo...you piece of...." Click!
9:33 PM
Our lovely elderly finger painter arrives, covered in poop from head to toe. EMS personnel smirk as they wheel her by, updating us as to any changes en route. Nope, no changes, except that now she's given up the fight and is again unresponsive and her breathing more shallow. In an instant her breathing stops and is immediately rushed to trauma 1 where CPR is initiated. "CODE BLUE ER-1, CODE BLUE ER-1."
9:57 PM-
"Time of death, 9:55" is belted out by the code team leader. "She never stood a chance." "It was her time." "She had a long and good life." Blah Blah Blah Blah. She had a horrendous death. Born covered in amniotic fluid, but certainly a proud moment for her parents one can be sure. She died, however, covered in shit, piss and bedsores. The nursing home where she spent her remaining days in agony and perpetual loneliness should be burned to the ground. No family, no attention, nowhere near as prominent and proud as she once was. Left to waste while the understaffed workers at Our Lady of the Perpetual Petri Dish took their extended breaks and pillaged through her personal belongings. A courtesy call to the nursing home is placed telling them that Mrs. Mullins will not be coming back and has been transferred to the ECU (Eternal Care Unit). I hear, "Whew, thank God.....CLICK."
10:22 PM-
Our usually bevy of drug-seeking, bipolar, depressed, suicidal, Xanax, Vicodin, Demerol hounds arrive as scheduled with multiple and varied complaints of, migraine headaches, chronic back pain, stress, anxiety, fibromyalgia, blah, blah, blah....!
They are easy to spot, almost always familiar, with the same ole' story. Most we know on a first name basis. They are all, coincidentally, allergic to the same medications; Tylenol, Motrin, Vistaril, Toradol, Aspirin or any other non narcotic or harmless placebo we've attempted to quell their "pain" with in the past. The only thing that works is "Demerol" and they must have a large supply of Vicodin in the form of a prescription when they leave. (Vicodin has Tylenol in it but apparently doesn't cause a severe allergic reaction when mixed with euphoria,....go figure!)
Security is usually called, for to tell them "no drugs tonight" is just asking for a fight. 00.00 later of other peoples money and they usually leave with their buzz on and their script for Vicodin. But usually not before asking for a "shot for the road" or additional scripts for anxiety (preferably Xanax) or sleep aids. 30 pills are often the number of pills given, depending on the frequency of the prescribed dose. This usually last a few days for the typical drug seeker and then they'll usually return with more "pain" and a hungry monkey.
In the age when Doctors are sued for both under treating pain OR for prescribing too many narcotics and "getting them addicted", we medical personal are caught up in the proverbial "catch 22". More often than not I have been written up and on several occasions was at a point where my job was in jeopardy because I challenged their pathetic lies whenever these low-life drug addicts invaded our ER's. Now I just shut up, shake my head and pray for an overdose.
11:12 PM
Waiting Room intercom is ringing off the wall. "...how long will I.......can you tell me where I am on the list......Donde esta su Doctor.......I can't find my child........the dingo ate my baby.....PINCHE PEDEJO, I BEEN HEER FER TWO DAYS AND MY ASS FEELS LIKE SOMEONE POURED SALSA RIGHT UP MY..........click.
Midnight in the garden of good (for nothings) and the evil (doers)-
After a flurry of non emergent triages, (sore toe, "the shakes", anal abscess, foreign bodies in the nose, ears and stomach of a 2 year old, blah blah, blah) I call in an astute, well dressed, middle aged white male, who is walking quite gingerly and refusing to sit. Differential diagnoses race through my head, back pain, abdominal pain, rectal abscess,. or perhaps....no!....NO!......NOOOOOOOOOOO!
Yes!
The story goes (and it is a common one) that he and the Mrs. were "experimenting" in bed (against his wishes, no doubt) when a vibrator was jammed in his keester and is now painfully out of reach. Given the nature of the "injury" he is whisked back to a private room, placed on his side, lubed up like a 57 Chevy, and a valiant effort is made to retrieve the 12 inch "perpetrator with ribs" from his large bowel. All to no avail. At one point we had a hold of the foreign body (actually, it was made in the US) but the colon wouldn't let go of it's new found cylindrical friend. We tugged, twisted, yanked, pulled, all efforts proving futile. Finally the physician stopped, exhausted from the tug-o-war match, with the forceps, commonly used to removed big headed babies, protruding from the prominent lawyers butt, he made the decision to call in the surgical team. All efforts to remain professional, however, fell by the wayside when, during a moment of silence, a low buzz was detected in the room. Had the blood pressure cuff inflated? Were the incandescent lights buzzing? Was the TV on?
No, no and no. We looked at the forceps and noticed they were vibrating uncontrollably, instantly realizing at that point that this thing was STILL ON. A mad rush by the scant crew to the exit door of the private room was attempted as to not embarrass this local professional with our boisterous laughter. No dice.
We will all eventually be written up and apologies made for our "unprofessionalism and disregard for the patient's privacy and mental well being".
That's ok. We needed that to preserve our own mental well being. Still proving that laughter is still the best medicine.
1:02 AM
Ten triages later and its dinner time for this mentally worn crew. We retrieve our food, locate it to the middle of the nursing station and we eat. Not all at once, mind you but usually a bite at a time. Eat a French fry, go wipe an ass in ER-1, a bite of a Big Mac, go clean up cherry cool-aid flavored vomit in ER-4, a sip of Dr Pepper, then physically restrain a combative Scitzo-effective patient. By 2:15 we have polished off the last bite of a hardened burger, ate our last stale French fry and sucked down the last gulp of our watered-down soda. A soda that is now as warm as fresh urine and food that is as cold as Mrs. Mullins in ER13.
2:30 AM-
Ahhh, my favorite time during the entire shift is upon us. The "Last Call at the local bar crowd" (LCLBC) start to pour in to the front entrance, while EMS brings the ones who got the shit kicked out of them through the back ambulance entrance. "Santa Rosa, this is unit 842....we are coming code 2 trauma with a 19 year old male.....closed head injury....intoxicated...combative....soiled....bloody.....no insurance.....blah, blah,blah.
The same ole song and dance spews from this patients bloodied spout as he is wheeled into Trauma-2......"I was just minding my own business"......"I only had two beers"....."I don't do drugs"..... "Can I get something to eat?" "RAALLLLLLPHHH!" "Housekeeping to ER Trauma-2, Housekeeping...."
2:31 AM-
"Dear Lord, If ANYONE can make time travel possible, it's you, God." "Pleeeese, send me forward to 7 AM.
3:03 AM-
Patient waiting room intercom is screaming..........."CLICK"......."BANG, BANG, BANG".
3:15 AM-
I am ushered into the staff break room for a "time out" and reminded by the night supervisor that the cost of the intercom will be deducted from my paycheck.
4:18 AM-
Our portly female beast of a woman is finally ushered back to a room but not before mumbling under her breath as she brushes past me, "Pendejo"! A major "abdominal work-up" is ordered. 40 lab tests, urine tests, stool cultures, abdominal x-rays, Cat Scans, blah, blah, blah......She's placed in a gown that looks like curtains stolen from the Grand Ole Opry, and given the reminder "Opening to the back, please," tossed in for good measure. ("Lord, give me the strength to...........Oh forget it, never mind")
She's given a URINE cup as she bounces her way to the bathroom. She fills it with STOOL. "Housekeeping to ER, STAT."
Can't find a blood pressure cuff large enough so we must take a chance at an erroneous reading by placing it around her calf or forearm. The hydraulic bed grunts and groans with ever twitch and shift from this woman of substances. She continues to bitch and moan and will eventually file a complaint with (in) human resources, I am sure. Multiple attempts at IV access finally yields a vein that hasn't been choked off by the mass of arm fat and IV fluids are initiated. After a quick assessment by the ER physician she is off to radiology, with a little 120 lb tech pushing 600 lbs of patient and bed up to the 3rd floor for a series of 00.00 radiologic exams. X-rays that were done just last week and that she has no intention or means to pay for. It would have been easier (and cheaper) had she driven to Sea World instead. Certainly more accommodating for a woman of her stature.
5:57 AM-
Multiple early morning stragglers are triaged and sent to wait. The foul odor of urine, poop, BO, booze, vomit, etc, permeates the air. "One Hour Left", I thought. We get all the results of the voluptuous Ms. Hinojosa's tests back and surprise, surprise...."Diverticulitis." Perhaps this time she will be compliant with her meds, compliant with her diet, compliant with her follow up, compliant with life. "Fat chance,"I thought. (Pun intended).
Her IV is removed and a half gallon of fat globules ooze from the harpoon hole. She is hoisted off the bed with the help of several departments within the hospital; half of who will call in sick tomorrow with severe back spasms. The battered stretcher which now resembles a low-rider after a major accident is towed to the back for repair. Ms Hinojosa is discharged but not before requesting a breakfast tray. Request denied.
Off she goes to the local "Taco Cabana" for a flurry of assorted breakfast tacos and a bowl of menudo. "She you in a few days, Ms Hinojosa."
"Pinche Pendejo!"
6:47 AM-
The dismal faces of the morning crew are evident as they reluctantly make there way in, some still in mid-prayer, the newer nurses with walkman's on, listening to ocean waves or cricket noises saturated with Muzac. A quick report is given to the mentally exhausted night crew and apologies made for the missing bed in ER 3 and the dead body in ER-12.
7:07 AM-
Each member of the night crew, each with a phone in hand, are awaiting the instant the clock strikes 7:08 where, with lightning speed, a flurry of buttons will be punched to clock out, ending another horrendous but typical night in the ER.
7:47 AM-
I pull up to my apartment and sit quietly in my truck. I recall the night's events and wonder if I had made any critical errors in care or judgment. I mentally prepare for the answers to the complaints made the night before by this unique ER culture of ignorant, non-compliant, abusive, poor, helpless, drugged-up, psychotic, dregs of society.
I say a prayer for Mrs. Mullins and her family and curse all those who've abused the system in the last 12 hours, spending thousands upon thousands of dollars of other people's money but contributing nothing to society what-so-ever. Once I deem that I will have a job come 6:45 that evening, I ease my tired body and shattered mind out of my vehicle, meander up to my apartment and into bed, hungry, frustrated, angry. Where I will fight the demons for an hour or so until I am able to fall asleep. I don't. I am woken by a dream whereby the ER staff are all patients in the waiting room on a busy night. I am called into the back where a 500-lb female nurse is ripping my clothes off with one hand and swinging a 6 foot rectal scope in the other like a pair of numchucks in a Bruce Lee movie. The alarm clock sounds and I immediately spring up and grab my ass, praying that a 6-foot proctoscope isn't dangling precariously from it. It's not. I breathe a sigh of relief and make my way to the shower and into another fateful night of chaos and mayhem.
6:43 PM-
I pull up to the ER, park my truck and sit. I clip on my name badge, giggle as I read our "Mission statement" tattooed on the back. "To extend the healing ministry of Christ," it reads, and I take a minute to ponder that statement. I smile, acknowledge it's powerful and profound meaning and bow my head to pray.
"Lord, today, give me your divine power to accept my responsibilities within this ministry. I pray that..."
Just then a beat up delta 88 rolls by on two wheels, with a definite lean to one side. I watch as they take up two parking spaces in the "staff" lot and out pops Ms Hinojosa. I cringe. She leaves a trail of urped-up fajita and menudo through the patient parking lot, into the physicians parking area, towards the ER entrance. Anger churns inside me and I hang my head, looking down at my badge and the mission statement on the back. I try desperately to find the peace and pride I felt just 2 minutes earlier and I resume my prayer......"Lord,....I just.......If you could only find it in your heart to............OH FORGET IT!!!!!....... NEVER MIND."
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Mountain Lion Attacks Son - Dad Attacks Mountain Lion
Sometimes, even a mountain lion has to watch who it bites.
Consider the case of the mountain lion, or cougar, who jumped out of the woods at a park in British Columbia and took a 4 ½ year old boy named Paul Krismer, Jr., by the head.
The boy's father, Paul Krismer, happened, luckily enough, to be nearby and turned just in time to see the cat do what comes naturally.
"I heard this cracking in the bushes," Paul Senior recalled, "and I looked back and I could see this cougar leaping at Paul and just getting his jaws set on Paul's head. Then they fell to the ground together."
The distraught father, who was about 20 yards away, rushed to the scene of the attack, without any weapon in hand and, instead, used his feet. He jumped on top of the cat with both of them.
"I just leaped off a log which was at a height over the two of them," he stated, "and came down very forcefully on the cougar's chest with both feet."
The mountain lion was so befuddled by the brazen attack of the father that it released the youthful Paul from its generally vicious grip and fled back into the wild, where, no doubt, it was accustomed to meeting less formidable adversaries than Paul Junior's dad.
What did the boy recall of the life-threatening crisis?
"He thinks it's a bad cat that made a bad choice," his dad said. "I honestly don't think he has a whole lot of sense about his own mortality." The dad went on to say his son is living the life of a typical 4-year-old. "You wipe out on your bike one day and a cougar attacks you the next. Then you fall off the swings the day after that. It's just another thing that happens."
Lighted Piano Keyboard Top Quality Promotions Shooting Ear Muffs
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
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