March 15, 2017

Back to Winter

 
Grey skies over Beirut

  For a moment I thought we had spring coming, but winter is back in town. Last Sunday was like Sundays I remember back in Holland; Gray, windy, wet and gloomy. Not a soul on the street. And when my daughter went to the art supply store, and it turned out it was (quite unusual) closed, the picture was complete. If ever you are prone to depressions, do not spend wintery Sundays in small villages in Holland. And it has been raining ever since. Not just raining, but entire deluges. It is snowing in the Cedars as I speak (writing this, that is).

Some lost tourist; a group of ladies from Iraq
And so I have put of switching wardrobes, an activity that is alien to Dutch people in general. It can be cold in Holland all year around; putting away your winter clothes for the season is useless, but in Beirut you don’t need winter sweaters for about 8 months of the year. Even longer these days, it seems.
 
Beirut from a different perspective

I was going to say something about global warming, but 1) the weather is obviously behaving as it should, and 2) but that word got me suddenly side tracked by the fact that I have – for reasons unclear to me – somehow ended up on the mailing list of the new White House administration.  I can’t remember, but I doubt that I ever voiced my strong opinion towards any of the American administrations in place, so why they suddenly would have added me – an obscure blogger in Beirut with no cloud, ‘wasta’ or real opinion -  to the White House mailing list is anyone’s guess.  Maybe Donald – or someone in his office - has been secretly a longtime reader of my blog?  Is there anyone in his retinue that is of Lebanese origins? Seems unlikely, but how did I get on that list??? Life’s a mystery.

Fishermen come out as the sun sets

 What I find surprising is that today as I walked home, I noticed our neighbors had a water truck in front of their building, and pumping water into their reservoir. For those readers not aware of the situation in Lebanon, our water supply is rationed.
Simple amenities, such as electricity, water, and internet, do not function properly in this town, but you’d think that - after this incredible amount of water that has come down this winter – the government would be able to at least provide enough water? But a 24/7 water supply is not in the stars anytime soon.  The water authorities blame it partially on the influx of Syrian refugees, but I doubt the accuracy of that. Are we going to blame the pathetic electricity supply of the last 26 years on them as well? And the fact that my phone line stops when it rains? Or my slooooooooooow Internet?

#365gratefulness


But I am not going to complain. I have completed my #365gratefulness project (not exactly in 365 days, though) and am aware of the power of positive thoughts. So I leave you with some uplifting pictures, Beirut from the water. 
Because when you are out on the water, everything gets a different perspective. It changes the way you look at things. Okay, so we don't have water. But if we cannot have it in our pipes, we can at least float on it.   



March 11, 2017

Ici Repose La Femme Ideale

A gate, slightly ajar, invites

I like walking. There is something very medieval, and very satisfying, about walking through the landscape you belong to. There is a connection.
Walking the same path over and over again, however, annoys me to no extend. I like variation, and so I have explored quite a bit of terrain around my mountain house.

A tiny graveyard

So yesterday late afternoon, we tried another path. Not much of a path really, much of it required climbing fences,  jumping streams, and holding on to branches as we slid down animal trails, and clambered through the underbrush.
And at some point, we passed by an abandoned hospital, and stumbled upon a little outcrop on a hill, with old trees.
I
t was the gate that got me interested. I have a thing for iron gates, especially if they are slightly ajar. And this one was.

Some 30 graves, maybe even less

When we got in, it turned out to be a graveyard. It didn’t contain many graves, maybe 30, most of them fallen in disrepair or without a gravestone.

But it got really interesting when we started reading the stones. There were christians, but also Armenians, and muslims and druse too. Cemeteries in Lebanon are always segregated, like much of society still is, since its laws on family affairs are still run by clerical authorities.

 
Ragheb Doumyat, a muslim, on the left.  A christian on the right,

The graves were not well maintained. It was clear that this place is hardly ever visited, and used even less. Although someone had been buried there recently (no stone was placed yet), and someone else was laid to rest in 2013, all the other graves looked very old, and were in various states of crumbling down. Some vandalism must have aided the overall deteriorated state of the place.

An iron fence around a grave was a 'fashionable' thing in the early 1900's. No stone was inside
But here was a mixture of religions, which is very unusual.

Most were Christian names, as this is a primarily christian region. There were two local names, Bechara and Abu Haidar, but some were from quite far away.One person was from modern day Syria:  George Basel Shalhat from Hallab (Aleppo), born in 1904. He died on March 8, 1930, when Lebanon as a state did not exist yet, and both Allepo and Lebanon were part of the French Mandate. 


An Armenian grave

There was a Prince Sheikh Ali, which sounds like it is a druse grave, (Amir, al sheikh Ali, 13-12-1942). Amir (prince) is a name common within the druse community.
Two graves, judging from the form of the stone and the date, were probably sunni muslim. One was very old, of Ragheb Doumyat, who died in ‘1350’, which is 1931 on the Gregorian calendar.A few Armenians (in Lebanon usually christian) had found their final resting place here as well. I cannot read Armenian, so I can't tell you anything other than the date (1913 – 1938)

George Basel Shalhat from Hallab

Another interesting name was Jordan Tokatlides (January 6, 1896 – June 6, 1924). Tokatlides, or Tokatlidis, indicates Greek origins. Greeks have always been actively engaged in trade with this region, and there are quite a few Greek families in Lebanon who originally came from Crete and settled in the region during the Ottoman Empire.
 
Two rather oddly-shaped graves. No names or dates. 

There were also some European foreigners.
 I have a penchant for foreigners buried in Lebanese soil. What is the story of these people, to end up so far away from home?

Ice Repose La Femme Ideale. Either she was indeed the perfect wife, or she trained her husband really well, or this was his final revenge; Dead was her best state yet. I am romantically inclined; I think it was true love.

Anna Eisner, apparently was married to a Lebanese,  Omar Fozi Issa, which is why she ended up in Lebanon. Omar is – in general – a name associated with the sunni, the other large group with islam, but it could be christian as well.  Eisner sounds German, but then there were quite a few American missionaries in the region. Would a missionary marry a muslim? What if it was true love? Did they have children? What became of them? She died young, only 35 years old. Her husband had given her stone the perfect epitaph, one that I think I will request; ‘La femme ideale’. 

 
It almost looks like they gave her the ‘Cross of Loraine’, which symbolized Free France during the Nazi occupation

I couldn’t find anything online about Anna Eisner, nor her husband, but I did dig up, no pun intended, some interesting things about the other foreigner, a certain Helena Bierer -  Thormann, who lived until the ripe old age of 88. 

The Internet claims Helena Bierer, wife of Emanual Bierer, was an SOE agent, together with her husband, during the second World War. The Special Operations Executive (SOE) was a British organization that was ‘conducting warfare by means other than direct military engagement.’  They were ‘to encourage and facilitate espionage and sabotage behind enemy lines and to serve as a focal point for the formation of a vestigial resistance movement in Britain itself (the Auxiliary Units) in the possible event of an Axis invasion.’ 



They employed a number of women, including Helena, and were active in the region. The organization was dissolved and merged into the current M16. What happened to the Bierers? Somehow, she ended up, or stayed, in Lebanon. Although the records show they do not know when and where she died, nor what happened to her husband, her grave stone indicates he died in 1972, in Lebanon. I have mentioned before that – although I am by no means dead yet -  I do wonder where I will end up once I am dead. Due to the ridiculous laws I am not allowed to be buried next to my husband (or rather the other way around, as I intend to live to become a 100), who’s planning on a sailor’s grave anyway (quite against local customs and law).

Another fantastic gate, this one unfortunately locked

So here is a solution. In this little graveyard, on a narrow promontory in the Lebanese hills, mountain range in the back, sea view in the front, for a century now, a mixture of people have found their final resting place. Religion is obviously not an issue here, nor are gaudy tombs and cenotaphs and I like that.  It is all simple and plain. This is going to be my final resting place. That is why you should never walk the same road twice. Had I not hiked in that direction, I’d never have found the little graveyard, nor met Helena Bierer – Thormann.  I am going to claim a stake in this place. 

This will be my view

And what will my stone read? Well, I have to stay with the spirit of the place.
"Ici repose la femme ideale . . "

March 05, 2017

Snow and Spring

9 AM and in the lift

I must have written this post a number of times, but somehow it disappears time and time again. This could be because my computer broke down, and then my phone (both for the second time within a year, I might add), and I have been switching between devices at home and at work, so it might be that it just got zapped off my hard disk, or that it is floating somewhere in cyberspace.

It might be a sign. A post so boring does not deserve to be written, let alone be posted. Who knows? I will try one last time. It becomes a bit of a cliché after writing it more than once, but then again, this post is a cliché.



The ski-season, although short in general, and even shorter this year, was a good one. Early snow, sunny  weekends, and an economy in a continuous downward spiral created some excellent skiing conditions. 
The fact that the last-remaining teenager in my household, who has always hated skiing with a vengeance, has taken a sudden liking towards snowboarding, has greatly helped.  I no longer have to threaten her with “You can stop skiing when you are 16,” or “You may stop skiing once you have a boyfriend that skis.” Suddenly, she takes the initiative, and suggests we go up to the snow.

Seriously empty slopes. The Mediterranean Sea in the distance

Relatively speaking, skiing is not that expensive; A weekend lift ticket here ($50 in Faraya) costs as much as a weekday ticket in most European ski resorts. Absolutely speaking however, for a single-income family in Lebanon, it is incredibly expensive. With ski-rental, instructor, lift tickets, food and gas, you’re looking at $400 for a day for four people. Not many people find it worth the money, or can do afford this. Hence the empty slopes.
 
She hated skiing, but has suddenly taken a liking to boarding


I had already packed up my skis - with 23 degrees Celcius in town all last week - I assumed the winter was over, but then Friday night it snowed again in the mountains, and my Accuweather indicated it would be sunny and cold up in Feraya,so I figured that it might as well be the last time this winter, so why not.

There’s this myth about Lebanon that you can ski in the morning and swim in the afternoon, all in the same day. This refers to the proximity of beach and mountains. Of course, this is a myth dating back to the late sixties, early seventies, when not everyone had a car. These days, it is a sheer impossibility, due to the horrendous traffic situation. You’d have to get up at the crack of dawn to make that work.

This is what brothers do; teasing little sisters

So Saturday morning (not at the crack of dawn ), I went up to ski. 
 assumed all of Beirut would do the same, and that I would be standing bumper to bumper for an hour in front of the parking lot of the ski slopes, while utter assholes block both lanes in and out, but surprisingly, that was not the case. Maybe everyone was thinking what I was thinking, that it would be very busy on the roads to the slopes, so maybe better not bother. But the slopes were calm, the snow was good. I expected it to get busy after 12 (when half-day ticket tariff starts), but still no people.

It was a perfect day for skiing.
And most likely the last one of the season.



Because when we drove down, we notice the storks soaring in the sky, on their way back to Europe; A sure sign that spring is in the air.

February 26, 2017

Small Story

Mohammed and his oranges

I am running a bit behind on pictures and posts, as a fellow blogger pointed out, so I have decided to dig a bit through my archives and share small stories. Most of my free time seems to be spent outside of Beirut, if you follow my posts. This morning, as hubbie drove through the streets of Beirut, he remarked “These streets used to be mine.”  It was more of a lament than a remark, and no, I did not marry some obscure war lord who used to roam these streets with a militia. He grew up in Beirut, lived all his life in Beirut. He went to school here, and hung around with friends. The streets of Beirut - Hamra and surroundings to be more specific - were his stomping grounds.  


Lemon trees

But lately, he does not feel like Beirut is his anymore. The architecture, the landscaping, the people, it is all alien to him. Very few, and I stress on ‘very’, of his childhood friends still live in Lebanon. Most of them are in England or the States, a few in France, and the rest spread pretty much all over the globe; the fate of many of his generation. “I no longer recognize this town,” he added.

And these days, it seems we’re back to this migration movement. Beirut, or Lebanon, has little to offer to young people with dreams. You’re lucky if you make $3,000 a month. Young professionals struggle with real estate prices at $3,500  a square meter in the ‘normal’ neighborhoods. It is all a bubble, but it doesn’t seem to want to burst. You want kids? Prepare for a $9,000 price ticket per child per school year. I am lucky I have no debts, but both my kids would not be able to build a future in this town without our extensive financial help.

Pomelos

Where was I getting at? Oh, yes, I seem to spend most of my free time outside Beirut these days.
Some time ago I went down south where a Dutch lady owns an olive orchard with her husband. Actually, the husband inherited the olive orchard, and they have taken care of it.
Besides olives, she’s got ‘snowbar’ (pine trees), orange trees, lemons, pomelos, clementines and avocados. All in her back yard. All she needs to do is walk out of her kitchen and pluck. The wealth of that! She’s been in country for many years now, got wonderful tales about her family in-law, Israeli bombardments and local healers. It is a joy to listen to her. This country harbors women of a special breed.

The view from her house

She loves animals, so she takes in the abandoned neighborhood cats, and the tortoises. Whenever the tractor comes in to plow the soil under the olive trees, she walks in front of it, and rescues all tortoises that she finds. “If I don’t, they’ll plow right over them.” She’s got some 44 now. 
One year, she got a white magic marker, and numbered them all. She had 44. The magic marker turned out to be not that magic after all, and after one thunder storm, the numbers all disappeared. As she is still rescuing, she’s not quite sure where she’s at now.


Nabatiyeh, a town nearby. It looked like Cuba to me, at night

Not much for a small story, but still, a story.

February 13, 2017

Hail

Hail in Beirut, and little rivers

Cleaning Sidewalks


Yes, I wrote last week, it does snow in Lebanon, but not in Beirut. And that remains true, but it does hail. Now and then.

But today, while walking home from work, I got caught in this massive hail shower. It was the mother of all hail showers, and although not the size of ping pong balls, it still came down most impressively. The hail fell and bounced around, and left everything, for just 5 minutes, white.

Rain in Beirut results in rivers. How do I get to the other side of the road AND keep my feet dry?

Happy camper (with slightly inappropriate footwear)

With childlike enthusiasm I continued my way. Maybe not the exact same feeling you get as a child when you wake up in the morning to a hushed world and an orange glow, both signs of snowfall during the night, but still, a happy moment.  

The gentleman on the left decided to cross, the man on the right is still contemplating

And as I slithered through wet and slippery Beirut, wading through rivers as I crossed the streets, I noticed everyone was smiling. The hail cleared both sky and mood.

10 minutes later, clear skies

February 12, 2017

Slow February

Early Sunday Morning Hikes

It is February. I was supposed to go skiing this weekend but the weather wasn’t great and I got lazy. Instead, I ended up in another part of the mountains above, without snow. And over there, I hike at 6:30 AM.  There’s all kinds of research out there that proves hiking makes you happier. Besides, it is supposed to enhance your problem-solving skills by 50% , and increase your creative output by about 60% . I never had much trouble with solving problems, although I am a little low on creative output these days, granted. February is a slow month.

Someone left a heart in a tree

I remember at my parents’ house, after (or before) big dinners with guests, we would go for a walk. This winter, while preparing for a Christmas dinner, I went for a walk around the village with some friends, and we met quite a few families that were walking. From the grouping, you could see that these were families that were together for the Christmas dinner (grown-up children with partners in general do not live with their parents in Holland), so this seems to be a typical Dutch thing. Lebanese do not seem to hike for fun, unless it is on the Corniche. Or sometimes in organized group on Sundays.  Either way, we hardly ever meet anyone while hiking. It may be the early hour. What idiot goes hiking on a Sunday morning, at 6:30 AM?

catkins (a sign of spring)
Here in the mountains we walk our dogs. And we walk because it is beautiful here. There is this little secluded valley-like forest that you can walk through and around, and there are no roads, so no cars, and no noise All you hear is the sound of running water, (always reminds me of Narnia) and crows. The screeching of hawks, if you’re lucky. Or buzzards, whatever you call them. There are some houses around this little valley, but most belong to Arabs (apparently we, the Lebanese, do not qualify as Arabs. When we talk ‘Arabs’, we mean the people living in the Gulf and Saudi Arabia), and they have not been around a lot. They got their first scare in 2006 (Israeli bombardments) and then the war in Syria (2011) did it for them; no more Lebanon. Their houses stand empty, their gardens maintained by janitors from Syria.
A friend of mine does business with ‘Arabs’, and she maintains that they will all show up this summer. I hope not. I know it is better for business, but I like the quiet of the area.


And although winter lasts officially for another two months, somehow it seems like spring has started here already. The catkins (elzekatjes in Dutch), the male flowers of the alder trees, are blooming, and I ran into an early Iris historia.  Now don’t think I am like a train spotter, going out into the woods with this extensive flora knowledge; I have to take pictures and Google extensively for color identification.
With a recent storm, the parasol pines have dropped their cones. I used to pick up all pine cones, but now I only pick up the closed one; they still have their seeds, which we add to dishes here.
Not much else to tell. As I said, February is slow.


Probably another reason why not many people hike here: Beware of mines. It is an old sign though

February 06, 2017

Why Ski in the Cedars


A slightly over-processed picture (I love Snapseed)

I went skiing in the Cedars this weekend.
The ski slopes in the Cedars are an interesting social experience.

When I first came to Lebanon, many years ago, I had been reading up on the country, and a number of books, such as Kamal Saliba’s House of Many Mansions, talked about a ‘tribal’ society. I never really understood why they would characterize Lebanon as a country of tribes, until my very first ski trip to the Cedars.


It is quite clear from the faces on the slope, that there is some serious inbreeding going on there in the mountains. Stocky built men with broad and meaty shoulders, chiseled faces and aquiline noses.
All of them. And I mean, all of them.

Somewhere some very productive patriarch put his stamp on the entire male population here.
Add to that the military style crew cut, and aviator sun glasses, and you’ve got your typical christian mountain man. Proud men too. The kind of men, that if you’d want to marry their daughters, you better make sure you come from the right tribe (read religion & village), or else they’ll lynch you once upon exiting their house. It sounds scary, but if you don’t mess with them, you needn’t worry.
Somehow, massacres like this don't seem so unbelievable here.

Empty slopes down . . .  The little green patch in the middle is the famous Cedar Forest. 

Of course, their understanding of ‘being messed with’ is slightly more sensitive than most people’s understanding, so tread lightly. Think Deliverance.
One of my fellow skier was talking to the hotel owner, who explained to him how his cousin had dealt with some men from the Beqaa Valley trying to steal his car. “He got his machine gun out and shot them. Dead? Of course dead.” That the cousin is now in jail, probably for many years to come was a side note. Don’t touch our cars, is the message.

My first ski experience, way back when,  was the line-up for the ski lifts (there were 3 then, if I remember correctly. Not much has changed; now there are 4) some 20 years ago. There was no such thing as a line up. Someone just walked to the very front of the line. And if anyone in the back as much as sighed, they’d turn around very slowly, ski jacket open, and a revolver suck in between the belt of their pants. You, of course, think I am making this up, but I kid you not; this was my very first line-up experience, somewhere in the nineties.

That kind of set the tone, and ever since that day, I store my usual assertiveness while lining up in the Cedars, and wait meekly with the rest of the pack, in hopes that I get sort of pushed to the front by the people behind me. This works quite well, and I have never run into any problems.
I even took my dog on the slope in the old days, a sheep dog, that made a concerted effort to keep all skiers together in a group, and ‘herded’ everyone together as they came down the hill.  Not a problem.
“If anyone complains,” said the lift operator,  “tell ‘em Charbel said so.”

. . .  and empty slopes up. (It looks really groomed, but it is an illusion :) 

A social experience, as I said. The Cedars was the very first ski resort in Lebanon, and as such, received the ‘beau monde’ in the fifties. I know people who have had their original chalet since 1969, and although by now an absolute dump, will not part with it. I know of people that snub their nose at Faraya, because they consider Faraya to be where the peasants ski; The Faraya skiers are the ‘common folks’. When Faraya got its first ski lift, that’s when it all went downhill with Lebanon, as far as they are concerned.  

Unfortunately, being the first in the country resulted in a fixed mindset. Why grow if you’re the best?  And as such, the Cedars have forever been stuck in the seventies, including the colorful one piece ski suits, the ski lifts (seriously, there is only one lift to the top), the cafes and hotels at the bottom of the hill, and the snowploughs. Slopes do not seem to get really groomed, and if there is an attempt at grooming the hill, it is done in such an odd way, that it is clear what they think here of groomed slopes; Groomed slopes are for sissies. ‘Real skiers’ do it ‘off-piste’ style.



The hotel I stayed in must once have been the absolute center of ‘après-ski’, the place where it was all happening. But as people moved on, the place did not. A serious make-over some years ago somehow stalled, and never got finished.  

The ski instructors can be morose, they do not take credit cards, they don’t have ATM machines, their rental equipment dates from the 80’s, there is only one real lift to speak of (the other 3 all cater to blue slopes, which are considered baby hills in the business), which operates erratically, because if they do not have enough customers, they do not open, or close early, they have no real slopes to speak off, and the après-ski establishments are grimy.

Yet, it all seems so much more real in the Cedars than anywhere else.
There are no hipsters in the Cedars, no over the top ladies in Dior ski-outfits who do not actually ski, and no restaurants that charge $200 for a bottle of champagne. Heck, they didn't even have white wine. It is the real Lebanon.



So why ski in the Cedars?
Well, I am nostalgic, and I like things that hint at a once illustrious past.
The slopes are (relatively) empty.
And then there is the scenery.

Aaaahh, the scenery. It is absolutely stunning, as you are on top of Jabal El Makmel, 2,829 meters high (that’s what my phone said), and you look over the white lands, Qaddisha Valley, the Cedar forest (park, more appropriately) at the bottom, and the dark blue in the distance hinting at a sea. 

Nothing can beat that.
If you want to see how Lebanon was, maybe not the sixties, but definitely pre-millennium, go ski in the Cedars.

You can clearly see the scar in the landscape that is  Qaddisha Valley

But it seems even that is about to change. There are, apparently, plans, to build a resort on top of the mountain there (more info here). Not everyone seems to agree with it, and petitions are being signed.
We’ll see.


And now I will be accepting lots of angry comments from people who will say I have no idea what I am talking about. That is fine with me. 

January 30, 2017

On Lone Puppies and Good Men

Two lone puppies, abandoned in the snow. One had such cold paws, he was constantly climbing on top of the other

It is all my husband’s fault. He wanted to walk the dogs, but then didn’t wear the right shoes, so now he’s wearing shoes that aren’t waterproof, so he cannot walk in the snow, and because of that we’ve got to hike up the mountain along the road. I don’t like walking on the road with dogs, because although in general cars will slow down when they see the dogs, some do not.

That’s how it started.

My dogs, sniffing them out

So here we walk on the tarmac, snow piled up on both sides of the road. It is 4:00 PM, the sun is about to set and it is getting colder. And in the distance we hear a dog. It is in an area where there are no houses, so what could be yelping? We ignore it. There are stray dogs in these mountains, and entire packs of jackals come out at night, howling as they roam around the mountains in search of food.

But our dogs go after it. And then there’s obvious yelping in fear. Some animal is cornered. When I follow them, into the snow, and through the bushes, I find two puppies, left alone in the snow. No shelter nearby, not even a box.

It is clear that someone had just dumped them there, out of sight, where no one will notice them. They’re maybe two months old, and very cold. They try to climb on top of each other, because their little paws are freezing in the snow.


Two brothers

Why is this always happening to us? Why do abandoned and lonely dogs always cross out path?  It’s like they’re lurking around the corner, waiting for us suckers to pass by. There’s lonely dog  #1, lonely dog #2, and lonely dog #3. We’ve got like a whole pack of them at home now. This is about the last thing we need; more lonely dogs.

We want to continue our walk. But the sun is setting. It is cold, and it is clear they are not going to survive the night out here. It freezes at night in these mountains, and even if they’d survive the cold in the snow, without a shelter, there’s the jackals roaming those hills at night. They move in packs, and a little dog would make a good dinner. We’ve had jackals snatching away little puppies right under our eyes in the past.
So what do you do? Ignore it? Had we not chosen this path, they would have died too, so what is the difference? 

I once watched an interview where a grandmother explained to her granddaughter how she decided to marry grandpa. “I asked him where his dog slept, and he said in his bed, and I figured, if he’s that good to his dog, he’ll be good to his wife.”


Is it mom?
Another story.
A friend of mine, on her very first date with the man she eventually married, some forty years ago, told me that her dog had been sick that day, and the dog had left a long trail of diarrhea all over the living room. My friend told him she could not go out with him that evening because she had to clean up the mess. He helped her clean everything up, and it was only later she found out he didn’t really like dogs. “If he hadn’t helped me with my dog right then and there, I probably would never have married him.

The moral of the story is that men who treat animals decently make good husbands. The Good Men Project, some American initiative that explores what it means to be a ‘good man’ also mentions that  real man love animals.
So what am I getting at? I am married to a good guy.

They check out of it is their mama. But it is not.
Yep.
We took them home. Bathed them. Fed them. Sheltered them. From the looks of it, they’re probably the offspring of a street dog somewhere, who lives at a construction site (one of the puppies was covered in cement) , and the workers may not have enjoyed the idea of having too many dogs around, so they picked them up and dumped them in the snow.

It is incomprehensible to me that you can just leave a living creature out there in the snow where you know it will die. No compassion. If you can do that to an animal, you can do it to a human.

So ladies, the moral of this story is, be with a guy who is good to animals. Cause he’ll be good to you.