Patti Spaite @PSpaite - Twitter Profile

@AlexanderArshia @BrickOnGasPedal @mhdksafa Are you familiar with Tousi TV, by Mahyar Tousi ? He has excellent news coverage from inside Iran somehow.

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Eric Daugherty

@EricLDaugh

5 months ago

🚨 BREAKING: In a massive move, Marco Rubio has ordered U.S. embassies in the Western Hemisphere to report HUMAN RIGHTS ABUSES caused by mass migration HOLY BASED! They're going to report on crimes specifically caused by migrants and laxed immigration policies, including countries who are our "allies" "Embassies will analyze government policies that facilitate mass migration or privilege migrants over citizens." "The United States urges governments to protect their borders and defend their citizens against the human rights abuses caused by mass migration. The United States stands ready to work alongside nations across the Western Hemisphere to end the global crisis of mass migration." Mass migration must END in the West, once and for all.

EricLDaugh's tweet photo. 🚨 BREAKING: In a massive move, Marco Rubio has ordered U.S. embassies in the Western Hemisphere to report HUMAN RIGHTS ABUSES caused by mass migration

HOLY BASED!

They're going to report on crimes specifically caused by migrants and laxed immigration policies, including countries who are our "allies"

"Embassies will analyze government policies that facilitate mass migration or privilege migrants over citizens."

"The United States urges governments to protect their borders and defend their citizens against the human rights abuses caused by mass migration. The United States stands ready to work alongside nations across the Western Hemisphere to end the global crisis of mass migration."

Mass migration must END in the West, once and for all.

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Michelle Maxwell ™

@MichelleMaxwell

5 months ago

The neighbors call the cops on my dad every six months. They think he’s running a fighting ring or flipping pets for profit. For years, I wasn't sure they were wrong. My father, Frank, is a man of few words and even fewer friends. He lives on a fixed income in a small, weathered house just outside of town. He’s 68, walks with a limp he got in ’71, and spends most of his day in his garage. But his most controversial habit involves the local animal shelter. Like clockwork, Dad brings home a dog. Not the cute puppies everyone wants. He picks the "unadoptables." The three-legged pit bulls, the senior labs with gray muzzles, the curs that cower in the corner. For six months, that dog lives like royalty. I’d visit and see Dad hand-feeding them steak scraps, walking them for hours, talking to them in a soft voice he never used with me. Then, six months later? Gone. The dog vanishes. No photos, no collar left behind. Just an empty bowl and Dad driving his rusted pickup truck to the shelter to get another one. "Where’s Barnaby?" I asked last Sunday. Barnaby was a one-eyed Golden Retriever mix he’d had since spring. That dog worshipped the ground Dad walked on. "Moved on," Dad grunted, staring at his coffee. "Moved on? Did you sell him, Dad? The neighbors are talking. They say you’re sick." "Let them talk." I couldn't take it anymore. I loved Barnaby. The thought of my father selling that sweet soul to some stranger for a few hundred bucks made my stomach turn. So, when I saw him load a bag of high-grade kibble and a new leash into his truck the next morning, I followed him. I expected him to drive to a breeder or a shady parking lot exchange. Instead, he drove two towns over to a drab apartment complex near the VA hospital. He pulled up to a ground-floor unit. I watched from my car, phone ready to record evidence, as he knocked on the door. A young man answered. He couldn't have been older than 25, but he looked 50. He was missing his right arm, and the way he stood—tense, scanning the perimeter—screamed PTSD. I recognized that look. I’d seen it in Dad’s old photos. Dad didn't say a word. He just whistled. From the passenger seat of Dad’s truck, a dog jumped out. It wasn't Barnaby. It was "Duke," a German Shepherd he’d had last year. Duke looked incredible. Focused. Calm. He trotted right up to the young man and sat by his left leg, leaning his weight against the boy’s thigh. The young man crumpled. He fell to his knees, burying his face in Duke’s fur, sobbing. Duke didn't flinch. He just held his ground, anchoring the boy to reality. Dad handed the young man a thick envelope. Not money—paperwork. Vaccination records. Training logs. I got out of my car. "Dad?" He jumped, looking more terrified than I’d ever seen him. He walked me away from the boy, lowering his voice. "You weren't supposed to see this." "You trained him," I realized. "You didn't get rid of them. You trained them." Dad sighed, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "A fully trained PTSD service dog costs anywhere from fifteen to thirty thousand dollars. The insurance doesn't cover it. The VA has a waiting list a mile long. These boys... they come home, and they can't sleep, they can't go to the grocery store, they can't breathe." He looked back at the young man, who was now smiling through tears, throwing a ball for Duke with his left hand. "I can't give them money," Dad said, his voice cracking. "I don't have any. But I know dogs. And I have time." "But why the secrecy? Why every six months?" "Because that’s how long it takes to turn a scared shelter dog into a soldier’s lifeline," he said. "Basic obedience, task training, desensitization. I take the broken dogs nobody wants, and I turn them into the partners these kids need." "And Barnaby?" I asked, my throat tight. "Delivered him yesterday to a female marine in Ohio. She hadn't left her house in two years. She went to the park this morning." 🐾 on my ❤️ Please share if this moved you.

MichelleMaxwell's tweet photo. The neighbors call the cops on my dad every six months. They think he’s running a fighting ring or flipping pets for profit. For years, I wasn't sure they were wrong.

My father, Frank, is a man of few words and even fewer friends. He lives on a fixed income in a small, weathered house just outside of town. He’s 68, walks with a limp he got in ’71, and spends most of his day in his garage.

But his most controversial habit involves the local animal shelter.

Like clockwork, Dad brings home a dog. Not the cute puppies everyone wants. He picks the "unadoptables." The three-legged pit bulls, the senior labs with gray muzzles, the curs that cower in the corner. For six months, that dog lives like royalty. I’d visit and see Dad hand-feeding them steak scraps, walking them for hours, talking to them in a soft voice he never used with me.

Then, six months later? Gone.

The dog vanishes. No photos, no collar left behind. Just an empty bowl and Dad driving his rusted pickup truck to the shelter to get another one.

"Where’s Barnaby?" I asked last Sunday. Barnaby was a one-eyed Golden Retriever mix he’d had since spring. That dog worshipped the ground Dad walked on.

"Moved on," Dad grunted, staring at his coffee.

"Moved on? Did you sell him, Dad? The neighbors are talking. They say you’re sick."

"Let them talk."

I couldn't take it anymore. I loved Barnaby. The thought of my father selling that sweet soul to some stranger for a few hundred bucks made my stomach turn. So, when I saw him load a bag of high-grade kibble and a new leash into his truck the next morning, I followed him.

I expected him to drive to a breeder or a shady parking lot exchange. Instead, he drove two towns over to a drab apartment complex near the VA hospital.

He pulled up to a ground-floor unit. I watched from my car, phone ready to record evidence, as he knocked on the door.

A young man answered. He couldn't have been older than 25, but he looked 50. He was missing his right arm, and the way he stood—tense, scanning the perimeter—screamed PTSD. I recognized that look. I’d seen it in Dad’s old photos.

Dad didn't say a word. He just whistled.

From the passenger seat of Dad’s truck, a dog jumped out. It wasn't Barnaby. It was "Duke," a German Shepherd he’d had last year. Duke looked incredible. Focused. Calm. He trotted right up to the young man and sat by his left leg, leaning his weight against the boy’s thigh.

The young man crumpled. He fell to his knees, burying his face in Duke’s fur, sobbing. Duke didn't flinch. He just held his ground, anchoring the boy to reality.

Dad handed the young man a thick envelope. Not money—paperwork. Vaccination records. Training logs.

I got out of my car. "Dad?"

He jumped, looking more terrified than I’d ever seen him. He walked me away from the boy, lowering his voice.

"You weren't supposed to see this."

"You trained him," I realized. "You didn't get rid of them. You trained them."

Dad sighed, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "A fully trained PTSD service dog costs anywhere from fifteen to thirty thousand dollars. The insurance doesn't cover it. The VA has a waiting list a mile long. These boys... they come home, and they can't sleep, they can't go to the grocery store, they can't breathe."

He looked back at the young man, who was now smiling through tears, throwing a ball for Duke with his left hand.

"I can't give them money," Dad said, his voice cracking. "I don't have any. But I know dogs. And I have time."

"But why the secrecy? Why every six months?"

"Because that’s how long it takes to turn a scared shelter dog into a soldier’s lifeline," he said. "Basic obedience, task training, desensitization. I take the broken dogs nobody wants, and I turn them into the partners these kids need."

"And Barnaby?" I asked, my throat tight.

"Delivered him yesterday to a female marine in Ohio. She hadn't left her house in two years. She went to the park this morning."
🐾 on my ❤️ Please share if this moved you.

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Patti Spaite @PSpaite

5 months ago

@SpencerHakimian 🤣🤣🤣🤣 NO THANKS! I'll follow my President! Mr Donald J Trump! ❤️🎚️🇺🇸💪

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Patti Spaite @PSpaite

5 months ago

@SpencerHakimian Are you serious? A president working without pay and raising our funds thru tariffs and lawsuits he's won. I'd say it's none of your business! Jealous much?

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