Ron 🇺🇸🎸🌊🌊🌊💙💙💙 @bgy1378 - Twitter Profile

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Harry Eccles

@Heccles94

7 months ago

Oh no 🫣 Trump hates this video! Please stop sharing 🫣

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Ron 🇺🇸🎸🌊🌊🌊💙💙💙 @bgy1378

7 months ago

@CrazyVibes_1 Thoughts and prayers 🙏 for your baby, Dawson!

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Ron 🇺🇸🎸🌊🌊🌊💙💙💙 @bgy1378

7 months ago

@honeymoon250 Sara

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Ron 🇺🇸🎸🌊🌊🌊💙💙💙 @bgy1378

7 months ago

@RedEagleUpdates EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

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Who to follow

Misty D Sunshine AKA: Dodge Dart Doggie

@CocoChewy1

Democrat💙 Ally🌈 #Woke #BLM No DM’s Pro Choice, Animal Lover, Save the Bees 🐝 #smokefleet #smokerises #UnitedWeStand

Steve Lewis

@SteveZ28RS

tRump is a fascist that is turning our Country into a hell hole. He is a pedophile who has raped and tortured little girls. No MAGA, No CRYPTO. No DM's.

John Montgomery

@John31280839

BlueCrew Musician at large - and 45, the con man, should be in PRISON by now! Chairman, Department of Redundancy Department BlueVoices BlueBrigade born 1960

Ron 🇺🇸🎸🌊🌊🌊💙💙💙 @bgy1378

7 months ago

@trustgodbrah Amen 🙏

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Ron 🇺🇸🎸🌊🌊🌊💙💙💙 @bgy1378

7 months ago

@thefrancotv Prayers for your son! 🙏🙏🙏

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bgy1378 retweeted

ᗰᗩƳᖇᗩ

@LePapillonBlu2

7 months ago

Her name is Katie Johnson

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bgy1378 retweeted

💕 Brittany Belle 💕

@BrittanyinTexas

7 months ago

Trust me, this is worth a quick watch. THEY ABSOLUTELY NAIL IT! 🔥

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Puppies & Positivity

@Puppieslover

7 months ago

Rescued from the side of the road, this sweet pup had never known human love. Trust came slowly, but with patience, kindness, and a playful puppy who welcomed him like family, his walls finally came down. Now they play, nap, like BFF. Pls leave them a ❤️

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bgy1378 retweeted

Michelle Maxwell ™

@MichelleMaxwell

7 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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bgy1378 retweeted

Robert J Ellingsworth 🆓 @BY1959

7 months ago

Trump doesn't care about drugs.

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Mr PitBull Stories

@MrPitbull07

7 months ago

“Barnaby, a shelter dog who had suffered abuse his whole life, was terrified of the dark and shaking in his cage at a vet clinic at 2:00 AM. Jessica, a night-shift vet tech, noticed Barnaby crying and unable to settle. Instead of resting in the break room, she returned to the kennel with a pillow and blanket. She lay down on the cold concrete floor next to Barnaby. Instantly, the dog stopped crying, curled up against her back, and finally fell asleep. The moment was captured on the clinic’s security camera. Although Barnaby’s past could not be changed, the care and presence provided comfort and safety for the night. This story highlights the quiet acts of love and compassion that animals inspire and the importance of remembering their stories beyond fleeting attention on social media.” Credit: Donny Morgan

MrPitbull07's tweet photo. “Barnaby, a shelter dog who had suffered abuse his whole life, was terrified of the dark and shaking in his cage at a vet clinic at 2:00 AM. Jessica, a night-shift vet tech, noticed Barnaby crying and unable to settle.

Instead of resting in the break room, she returned to the kennel with a pillow and blanket. She lay down on the cold concrete floor next to Barnaby. Instantly, the dog stopped crying, curled up against her back, and finally fell asleep. The moment was captured on the clinic’s security camera.

Although Barnaby’s past could not be changed, the care and presence provided comfort and safety for the night.

This story highlights the quiet acts of love and compassion that animals inspire and the importance of remembering their stories beyond fleeting attention on social media.”

Credit: Donny Morgan

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Ron 🇺🇸🎸🌊🌊🌊💙💙💙 @bgy1378

7 months ago

@SkyVirginSon Amen 🙏🙏 🙏

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bgy1378 retweeted

ʙʏ ᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟ ʜᴀɴᴅ

@bymortalhand

7 months ago

Statue of the Virgin Mary in Lebanon 🇱🇧

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bgy1378 retweeted

Protect Kamala Harris ✊

@DisavowTrump20

7 months ago

Actor Richard Gere on Donald Trump: “We have a president who’s not only crazy, he’s a dark presence. And it’s happened so quickly. Six months, he’s almost destroyed our country” RETWEET if you stand with Gere against Trump!