Swedish Vallhund Puppies

01/31/2024

Mom!!!! Do Not disturb me!!!!

01/31/2024

Just a Vallhund snoozing with dad. Silly Smudge! Love this dog!

01/21/2024

Crock Pot Mississippi Roast
- A Heavenly Burst of Flavors
- Beef Chuck Roast- Ranch Dressing Mix
- Au Jus Gravy Mix…
- Must Express Something To Keep Getting My Recipes… Thank You.
🔗 Recipe in top (c.o.m.m.e.n.t ). 👇 👇

07/25/2023

07/25/2023

BOLD RULER
Bold Ruler was the Heart of Hearts and the bond he held for his father, Nasrallah touches ones Soul.
This is an interesting story in which two worlds touch. Mrs. Phipps, the owner of Bold Ruler, (Secretariat’s sire), had owned and sold Seabiscuit at one point back in the early 1930’s to Charles Howard.
I love the fact that horses were Mrs. Phipps passion and her means of staying grounded. Seabiscuit was born in Lexington where Secretariat ended his days. I always wondered why Seabiscuit had a strong pull on my spirit, come to find out, he was put to rest in Willits, just a short drive from where I was born in Northern California.
I love the way this clip ends. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
♥️🐎👑🐎👑🐎👑🐎♥️
Jockey Eddie Arcaro was riding Bold Ruler toward the winner’s circle late that afternoon of 1956, moments after the c**t had raced to a two-length victory in the Futurity at Belmont Park, when Mrs. Henry Carnegie Phipps stepped forward to meet them. Bold Ruler had just beaten the fastest two-year-old c**ts in America, running in near-record time, and he was dancing home, his nostrils flaring hotly, his neck bowed and lathered with sweat, moving powerfully toward his seventy-three-year-old owner. Turfwriter Charles Hatton watched her meet him.
“Mrs. Phipps was out at the gap to get him and lead him down that silly victory lane they had there. And she must have weighed all of ninety pounds, and here is this big young stud horse—and she walked right up to him and held out her hand, and he just settled right down and dropped his head so she could get ahold of the chin strap, and Bold Ruler just walked like an old cow along that lane and she wasn’t putting any pressure on him to quiet him down or make him be still. It was one of the most amazing sights I’ve ever seen. It was incredible to me because anyone else reaching for that horse
—and he was hot!—you’d have had to sn**ch him or he’d throw you off your feet or step all over you. But not with her. For her he was just a real chivalrous prince of a c**t. He came back to her and stopped all the monkeyshines, ducked down his head and held out his chin, and here was this little old lady with a big young stud horse on the other end and he was just as gentle as he could be.”
Even growing old, as her walnut face withdrew inside a frame of white hair, she had a mind as quick as a crack of lightning and always drove to the racetrack in the morning by herself, without a chauffeur, steering her Bentley south from Spring Hill, the marble palace on Long Island.
Mrs. Phipps must have seemed the picture of some innocent eccentric—the way she tipped back her head to see the road above the dash, the way she gripped the wheel with both hands, the way she climbed from the car with the poodles beside her and walked into the barn at Belmont Park. Her horses turned to watch her coming. She carried sugar, and she wore a plain dress, sometimes a stocking with a run in it and sometimes moccasins or gym shoes. The men at work in the stables stepped gingerly around her when she walked up the shed, some nodding deferentially and saying hello, and she returned the salutations but did not speak at length to them, only to Sunny Jim Fitzsimmons, her crippled trainer.
On summer mornings they would sit as if enthroned like ancients from another time. He was the sage, a former trolley car motorman from Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn who became one of the finest horsemen of all time, the only man to train two winners of the Triple Crown, Gallant Fox and Omaha, and almost three and four in Johnstown and Nashua. She was the patron, fulfilling the aristocratic role, racing horses for the sport of it and never complaining, win or lose. She was the stable bookkeeper and knew how much each horse had won. She would ask how they were doing, how they were eating, and when and how they were working, and when and where they would race again. She was an independent little statue of a woman who went her own way, and she would walk up to the shed and stop to pet and feed her horses, complimenting those who had won, scolding softly those who had just lost: “You dope,” she would say, holding a cube of sugar. “I don’t know if I should give you one.” But she always did.

By William Nack👑
Secretariat

06/17/2023

Hey look here Mark, Dad, and Logan cleaning the pool. Looks like there’s one working and two supervising. Looks like a state job to me!! Love these guys!!

06/03/2023

These two little girls are still looking for their forever families. Could it be you? Pm for details.

05/29/2023

Do t bother me I’m meditating!!😁

05/28/2023

Just layin around on this holiday weekend while waiting for my forever family.

05/26/2023

THIS….this right here is why I do what I do!!

05/25/2023

IF HORSES WERE IN HIGH SCHOOL

Quarter horses: Definitely jocks. Strutting around flexing those muscles and showing off their butts. Responsible for all the trophies in the glass case.

Paints: Quarter horses with too much make-up.

Thoroughbreds: Preppies. They are athletes never jocks, monogrammed blankets, leather halters, Nike eventer shoes and the latest custom trailer and tack.

Appaloosas: Stoners. the like to drop acid so they can watch their spots move.

Arabians: RAH! RAH! SIS MOOM BAH! GGGOOOOOOOO TEAM!( Need I say more?)

Shetland ponies: Punks. Spikey hairdos, snotty attitudes and any colour of the rainbow.

Friesians: Bikers. Big, buff, always black, cigs hanging out the corner of their mouths and a dangerous glint in their eye.

Morgans: Nerdy teachers pet running around doing everything from yearbook to decorating the gym and rattling the bikers, stoners and jocks.

Drafts (All breeds): No real clique they're just the big guys who sit in the back of the room and fart a lot.

Hackney ponies: Band geeks. Marching along with their heads and knees held high, even going to the bathroom.

Warmbloods: The school staff and faculty. Looking down their noses with righteous indignation and disgust.

Minis: Primary school students.

Donkeys: Would be the teachers with the ability 'to think' and remember what happened the day before. Less likely to step on your feet when dancing.

Saddlebreds: The ones riddled the teen angst, the artsy, drama club type?

Percheron: Cafeteria ladies.

Mustangs: The free spirits and the "rebels without a cause".

The PTA would be aged broodmares only.

Football team: Well the Budweiser Clydesdale's of course!!!!

05/24/2023

𝘽𝙡𝙪𝙚𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙎𝙖𝙡𝙨𝙖 𝙍𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙥𝙚 🫐
Full recipe: https://tinyurl.com/STGBBSalsa
Easy and full of fresh fruit flavors.

05/24/2023

Best dog tag ever. 😂😂

Find it here (affiliate link)-->https://rstyle.me/n/c7ameqb6dpf