honda us90
Trying to make sense of messages

My mate and I returned Saturday late morning from a mini-vacation in Wabasha - on the effort we soaked in the breathcatching vibrant colors of leaves and enjoyed the observe of gulls gathering around Lake Pepin. We visited the Public Eagle Center and met Angel. Our lives had gotten so absorb, we needed to stop and take some time for ourselves. While we were gone our pups Mister and Missy got to be pampered at Pampered Pooch Playground. 
This morning i find myself reflecting back on the happenings of yesterday. In a seven hour patch after our return, three events happen that have caused me jump, pay attention and pause ...
At 2:35 pm on my plunge back home after picking up Mister and Missy from Pampered Pooch, I am coasting along highway 62 heading east. As I make a proposal to the Bloomington Ave exit in Richfield I consider a loud noise. I turn around and simultaneously make out Missy in a panicked state and the build passenger window of my partner's Honda CRV on the on the very point of of shattering - what was once a smooth clear window now looks like a network of nerves and veins and the unmixed touch would cause the entire window to break apart. In the top right hand corner I see the entr point of a pellet.
My partner later points out that the flight path and angle of the gun shot pointed rational to my head. In the hour that follows, I pray for over on Bloomington Ave and calm the pups down and order them in the front seat and floor and make my way institution -- the window crumbles and all that remains is the bantam section in the top right hand corner where the pellet attempts to come in. I am guessing some kids are shooting at parenthetically cars - entertainment in some sick be under the impression that. 
At 7:20 pm on our way to the State Theatre in downtown Minneapolis, I am driving my Honda Unfavourable weather on Cleveland Ave in St. Paul heading north. Out of nowhere a hoary sedan flies out onto Cleveland from a side thoroughfare. My partner screams. Time freezes for me. I'm driving 35 mph as the milky sedan is coming at us at a 90 grade angle at an accelerating speed. A crash is imminent. I don't know what happens. I sensed a vigilant barrier come down around my car and somehow, my hands, which no longer see like they are mine, take control of the steering ring and what should've been a collision resulting in severe harm or death, is now a moment in time i will fully remember, not truly understanding what happened, or more accurately, why something didn't betide .. a "lucky" escape?
My helpmeet and I discuss turning back. What's going on? Hours earlier, I had been essay at - another "lucky" incident where neither the dogs or myself were pain. Now this?
At 9:30 we're heading home from the Form Theatre, driving on 6th street in downtown Minneapolis, after hearing Khaled Housseini , framer of "The Kite Runner", speak. My helpmate and I are engaged in conversation. Next to me on my right is a red Mazda pickup goods. Out of the blue, he swerves attempting to surprise onto Chicago (a young man from Wisconsin claims he did not see us) and rams settle into the passenger side. This time - not so "lucky" i judgement; however, maybe lucky in that no one was seriously injured. Amazingly, there is no front damage to my car - just some internal harm causing my passenger door to no longer be competent to open.
This morning i reflect on yesterday. The BB gun brings back memories of how my first dog, Splat, a threatening cocker spaniel was shot and killed in my backyard on July 20, 2000 less than one month after inspiring to Minnesota. One week prior, a detest note taped to our front door - patrol in Eagan saying they couldn't do anything until "something happened." My listen to flashes back to Shadow (our lab mix who crossed Rainbow Go in July 2007) whom I rescued from the streets of Owasso, Oklahoma in 1998 a martyr of a gunshot wound to his head - a "favoured" survivor.
My mind flashes back to how on Saturday Cimmerian dark, while in Wabasha, I am deeply impacted by a opine made by a friend who challenges me on the changing of a dog's name from a plain english name to an ojibway name (my wish to over the heritage of where the dog is coming from). The footnote strikes a sensitive nerve in me and pierces my basics... at first i don't know why. After hours of chit-chat with my partner I realize it's personal for me. My old boy had to change his name when he came to the United States for tutelage because his name was too hard to pronounce... from Banharn to Bob ... my mom's name changed from Araceli to Sally because it was too intricate to pronounce. Our culture, our heritage dismissed and discounted in deplane of a more dominant culture. And last night, interestingly, Khaled speaks about cultural torment that is happening in Afghanistan. What struck a fearlessness in me Saturday night regarding a direct name change of dog ... while yes, it is personal for me, i effect is not so personal. I believe many don't intend to repulse ... a simple name change, however, brings with it an in one piece history and cultural heritage. Perchance it's not a big deal for a dominant culture; it is, however, for those of us who attain from an non-dominant culture.
Somehow, i know there is a squeeze through in the events of the past 24 hours; there is a communication in all of this. There is something I need to hear. There is something I will be called to do.
I am not withdraw yet on what it is, not at this very moment. I trust clarity will come around c regard to me when the time is right.
For now, I am especially thankful, to be here today.
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