Ogden Animal Hospital

05/10/2026

Thank you for your service and ultimate sacrifice.

Carrie French grew up in Caldwell, Idaho — small town, big dreams.
She was a varsity cheerleader at Caldwell High. She loved the outdoors. She had plans to travel Europe, go to law school, make something of herself. But college costs money, and Carrie knew that. So while still in high school, she signed up for the Idaho Army National Guard as a way to pay for it.
That decision would take her somewhere she never expected.
By the time she graduated in 2004, she was heading to Iraq. She turned 19 over there — serving as an ammunition specialist with the 145th Support Battalion, attached to the 116th Brigade Combat Team. She was nervous about the deployment, her father Rick said later. But she was proud. Those two things can exist at the same time.
On June 5, 2005, Carrie was riding in a fuel truck near Kirkuk when an IED struck the vehicle.
She didn't come home.
At 19, she became the first female soldier from Idaho to die in the Iraq War. Posthumously promoted to Corporal, she was awarded nine medals — including the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart. The governor of Idaho spoke at her funeral and said he hoped her family would always think of her when they saw an American flag, because she was one of the reasons it still flies.
Her father said something simpler. Something that's stuck ever since.
"She was willing to try anything, really."
That was Carrie. The girl who asked for a skydiving trip as a graduation gift. The girl with the almost constant smile, according to the boyfriend who'd served alongside her. The girl who got baptized in Iraq — to the sound of small-arms fire in the background — because she wanted to.
Today, there's a bronze statue of her at the Idaho State Veterans Cemetery. She stands alongside another soldier, sharing a quiet moment before a mission. The artist even included the watch she wore on deployment.
She never made it to law school. She never saw Europe. She never got the future she'd planned.
But she gave something most of us will never be asked to give.
And she did it at 19, before her life had really even started.

04/30/2026

Incredible story!

On January 25, 1966, test pilot Bill Weaver was doing what few human beings had ever done — cruising at Mach 3.2, roughly 15 miles above the Earth, aboard the most advanced aircraft ever built: the SR-71 Blackbird.
Then, in the span of two to three seconds, everything went wrong.
A catastrophic engine failure triggered a chain reaction that the airframe simply could not survive. The forces building around the aircraft were beyond anything the controls could correct. Weaver tried to warn his crewmate, Jim Zwayer, in the rear cockpit — but the g-forces crushed his words before they could leave his mouth. Then everything went black.
He didn't eject. There was no time to reach the handle. The SR-71 didn't crash — it disintegrated — and in doing so, it hurled Bill Weaver into the near-space atmosphere at over 2,400 miles per hour. Alone. Unconscious. Fifteen miles above the ground.
When Weaver came to, his faceplate was frozen solid with ice. He couldn't see. He couldn't immediately understand what had happened. His first conscious thought, he later recalled, was simple and absolute: "I could not have survived what just happened. I must be dead."
He was not dead.
His pressurized flight suit — essentially a prototype spacesuit — had kept his blood from boiling in the near-vacuum. His parachute had deployed automatically. Below him, scattered across the New Mexico desert, burned the wreckage of the most sophisticated aircraft on Earth.
Tragically, Jim Zwayer did not survive. The forces of disintegration had been instantaneous and fatal for him.
But Bill Weaver drifted down through the silence, landing in the desert where a local rancher — who happened to own a helicopter — rushed to his aid and flew him to safety.
Two weeks later, Bill Weaver climbed back into an SR-71 and flew again.
Not because he had to. Because that's who he was.
Some people survive the impossible and spend the rest of their lives defined by it. Bill Weaver survived the impossible — and then went back to work.

04/25/2026

This gave me chills. God bless them and their families, thank you for your sacrifice…

On the morning of September 11, 2001, Todd Beamer kissed his pregnant wife goodbye and left for the airport before sunrise.

He was 32 years old. An Oracle sales manager. A father of two small boys, with a daughter due in January. He had only just returned from a company trip to Italy with Lisa — his reward for being a top performer — and had delayed his flight the night before just to spend a few extra hours with her. That morning, he left at 6:15 a.m. for Newark Airport, planning to be home again by nightfall for Lisa's birthday.

United Airlines Flight 93 took off 42 minutes late due to runway congestion. That delay — ordinary, forgettable — would change everything.

At 9:28 a.m., the world changed inside that cabin. Four hijackers seized the cockpit. The plane was violently turned east. Passengers and crew were herded to the rear. The pilots were gone. The aircraft was now a missile with a destination none of them yet understood.

Todd reached for the Airfone at his seat. He first tried calling Lisa, then a friend — both calls dropped. He dialed zero and was connected to Lisa Jefferson, a GTE supervisor working at a call center in Oak Brook, Illinois. She would later say he sounded so calm that she initially doubted the emergency was real.

He wasn't calm because he wasn't afraid.

He was calm because he had already decided who he was going to be.

For the next 13 to 15 minutes, Todd described the hijackers, their positions, the device one carried, the fate of the pilots. Lisa documented everything and stayed on the line. Through other passengers' calls, a terrible picture came together: the World Trade Center had been hit. The Pentagon had been struck. This was not an isolated hijacking. Their plane was part of something coordinated — and it was heading toward Washington, D.C.

Todd understood the logic clearly. The aircraft wasn't being used as leverage. It was being used as a weapon. Whatever came next — compliance, negotiation, waiting — would not save them. But it might cost thousands of others their lives.

He asked Lisa Jefferson one personal thing before the plan was formed: if he didn't survive, would she call his family and tell them how much he loved them?

Then he joined Tom Burnett, Mark Bingham, Jeremy Glick, and others in the back of the plane. They compared information quietly. They took a vote. They knew what either outcome meant.

He returned to the call and asked one more thing of Lisa Jefferson — to pray with him. At thirty thousand feet, with everything he loved behind him and an unlit runway ahead, he recited the Lord's Prayer and Psalm 23 with a stranger. His voice held steady.

When the prayer ended, he set down the handset but left the line open.

"God help me. Jesus help me. Are you ready, guys? Okay. Let's roll."

At 10:03 a.m., Flight 93 struck a reclaimed strip mine field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Everyone on board died.

The U.S. Capitol building — where both houses of Congress were in session — was never hit.

The 9/11 Commission later called the passengers' action the first successful counterterrorism counterattack of that day. Not by soldiers. Not by commanders. By 33 ordinary people who understood what was being asked of them and answered.

Todd Beamer's daughter, Morgan Kay, was born on January 9, 2002. She grew up knowing what her father chose and why. His sons David and Drew — three years old and one year old on September 11 — did too.

At the Flight 93 National Memorial in Shanksville, 40 names are inscribed in white marble. Forty people who refused to become a weapon. Who became protectors instead.

"Let's roll" was never just a phrase. It was an answer — to fear, to paralysis, to the weight of an impossible moment.

Todd Beamer boarded a plane expecting a Tuesday. He left behind a lesson that will outlast all of us:

Courage is not the absence of fear. It's what you do with the seconds you have left.

~

04/14/2026

Isn’t this great?!?

04/14/2026

A true hero!

04/14/2026

This is a great story.

On a cold January morning in 1981, a young man stood on a ninth-floor fire escape above Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, gripping a pillar, staring down at the street below.
He had been up there for hours.
Police officers tried. A psychologist tried. A minister tried. One by one, they ran out of words. And somewhere in the crowd that had gathered below — a crowd that had begun cruelly chanting for him to jump — hope seemed to be running out too.
Then a Rolls-Royce pulled up.
Muhammad Ali — heavyweight champion of the world, three-time title holder, one of the most recognizable humans alive — stepped out of the car. He didn't have to be there. Nobody called him. His public relations manager had heard the news and mentioned it. That was enough.
Ali went upstairs, leaned out of a nearby window, and looked at the young man. Not with pity. Not with the practiced calm of a negotiator. But with something far more powerful — recognition.
"You're my brother," Ali called out. "I love you, and I couldn't lie to you."
For twenty minutes, they talked. Ali shared stories. He reminded the man that his life had value. He didn't lecture. He listened. And slowly, something shifted on that fire escape.
The young man stepped back inside.
Together, the two of them walked out of the building and into the street. The crowd — the same crowd that had been chanting moments before — fell silent, then erupted. Not in chaos, but in something that sounded a lot like relief.
Ali put the man in his car and drove him to get the help he needed.
Afterward, reporters asked Ali what he had said up there. He kept it simple: "He was just depressed. He couldn't find work. He wanted to be somebody."
Then Ali added something few headlines bothered to print: "I'm going to help him find a job. Buy him some clothes. Walk the streets with him so people see he's somebody."
That is what greatness looks like when no one is keeping score.
Muhammad Ali won 56 professional fights. But on that January morning in 1981, leaning out of a ninth-floor window above a city that had stopped breathing, he won something no belt could ever measure.
He chose to show up — for a stranger, for humanity, for the quiet, unglamorous work of reminding one lost soul that his life mattered.
The greatest never stopped fighting. He just changed what he was fighting for.
Who in your life needs to hear today that they matter? Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is simply show up.

03/28/2026

Gid Bless you and thank you for your service.

03/28/2026

This is so sad. Thank you for your service and ultimate sacrifice. God Blessyour friends and family to give them strength.

03/28/2026

Cindy Simone. Yes dogs do grieve when they lose a companion.

Do dogs grieve the loss of another dog? How do you help a dog cope with the loss of another dog if they do? There is no simple answer for these questions.

11/13/2025

Our WiFi was up the next day. Sorry for any inconvenience. I thought it was because of the Geomagnetic storms, but I had WiFi in Farr West. Anyway we are ready for business. 9:00 am to 6:00 pm (Last appointment at 5:30). Monday through Thursday and 9;00 to 2:09 on Fridays.

If we aren’t answering, our WiFi is down and we don’t have phone service. Call the cell number below to mae appointments etc. Blood results to the lab are delayed, we are working to get things done. Thank you for your patience.