ONE VOICE

New visitors to the chronicles from the future may first wish to visit the past, by reading the earlier hologramletters. (see the older listings on the right, go to the bottom and click the link to the earlier hologramletters)

NOTE The following is an adaptation from the soon to be released book ‘Letters From 2030’. To register interest on its release, or to order a copy email Bob Williamson via this link.

What had we done to infest our world with our complacent occupation he thought?

What was it that made us believe that the outcomes of our continued disregard for nature would allow us to go on unaccountable for our actions?

As he looked at the landfill outcomes of our daily lives of the past, he knew that the answer had been in changing personal collective actions, to those of emulating the natural system; taking no more than could be sustained by nature, accepting that this was the only way to live in balance with how it had all started and how it must now in 2030 be achieved.

What were the lessons left from the past? What were the lessons left for the future, if there were to be one for those who would follow this brief experiment of over indulgence; what would those lessons be?

He looked back and while in deep reflection the incoming hologramletter answered at least one of his questions……… It was the voice of one!


February 2nd 2030


Hi Bob

Mathew here.............

I attempted to make contact with you some time ago and the transmission of my hologramletters didn’t make it through. I hope this one reaches you. As I said at the beginning of that transmission I am not sure you’ll remember me.

We first met at a rally in Perth in December 2008. You were there to protest the Australian Governments stance on emissions reductions, and you were outspoken as I found you to be in the many lectures and public events I heard you speak at after that time.

We only met briefly that day, but you made an impression on me and my girlfriend; now my lost love Emma. Do you remember Emma? She asked you how she could make a difference as the voice of one; and you told her.

You wrote of her in an international on-line publication as to how she as the voice of one could; and thanks to you, did; reach out and inspire others to be the power of one and then the voice of many. She was so proud to have made a difference, and did so to many over the years, until she was taken in 2022. I miss her everyday, but she is still here with me as my soul mate and always will be.

We left Perth to travel to Arrowtown on the south island of New Zealand in 2012. I am alone now without Emma who, as I said has left this troubled world we have created. She was a strong heart and grew each day to help others, but in an error of judgement she tried to help some who would do her harm. Sad, isn’t it, that those we try to help even now would see their own selfish interest above those who have a kind heart?

As I said, I attended many of the talks you gave on the need to change to a safe future during those years in the early days of the struggle. What was it you wrote that changed our lives in that article and the series you ran to inspire others? It was this:

‘At the end of the rally a young lady in her 20's came up to me. Introducing herself as Emma, I was impressed with her passion to become involved. It was obvious to me that she was intelligent and motivated, but her question touched me; "I want to do something, but I don't know how and I'm not sure I could make a difference as a single person (voice). 'How did you do it?'"

I told her some of our journey, which is what I call, 'our overnight success that took us a decade.' On reflection, there are many journeys such as ours, many activists like me and my family who are making a difference with the voice of one. They too could guide Emma and others like her to become instrumental in the changes we need to urgently achieve. They too could motivate others with their stories and they too could inspire the many Emma's out there with their words, actions and visions.

So here is my challenge:

Seek out these people; write their inspirational stories in 'An Interview With An Activist' series of blogs. Help the many Emma's to become the power of one voice. As I say in the book introduction: -Feel no guilt for being part of the problem, but feel responsible and inspired to be part of a solution. A few great men and women may start out being the power of one, but no single great man, no single great woman, from the start of history or into the future, will make a change without collective will. We need collective will, collective effort, and collective vision, for our collective future. You and Yours. Me and Mine. Them and Theirs. Are you such an inspirational activist with a story to tell and an Emma to guide?’

The day when your story was published Emma became the voice of many! Thanks to you she was no longer the voice of one; she believed from that day that she had become the voice of many; as you called it, “the parade of concern that could change policy from just good policy; to good policy driven by good politics.”

From that day on December 16th 2008 when you, I and Emma stood side by side to protest the stupidity of the Australian Government's stance on emissions reductions we became the voice of many. That day when they provided the polluters with 1.4 billion in additional subsidies, we set course and were determined to protest at every opportunity.

We moved to New Zealand to be close to her family in 2013. They like many of the traditional owners; the traditional indigenous owners of our planet; have always lived in harmony as best they can with nature. In balance and taking only what nature in her wisdom could provide. This is still a mostly sustainable society in Arrowtown. It’s a sort of fortress in that the community, although depleted by the global pandemic of 2016, still manages to pull together and help others. I remember that section of your book that you spoke of such of communities. I have it here let me read it to you:

‘In our community you can drive down the road and see signs offering “Free Horse Manure,” “Free Lemons—Help Yourself” and “Free Range Eggs.” Ours is the type of close knit friendly community where when disasters hit, neighbours all pitch in. We’ll turn up with chainsaws at the ready to help clear roads and driveways blocked by fallen trees after storms. We’ll rally to fight bush fires, working together. Our community and others like it, we would learn, would react to the new future with far more calm than many others around the world. These communities, as we had seen in past disasters, would suffer turmoil, social unrest, looting, and fighting over food supplies and water. These urbanized, heavily populated areas, totally reliant on the system to support them, would find it far harder than we would to adjust. But in the long run, it would still be their choice.’

How true it was. When disasters struck after the disintegration of the Ross Ice Shelf in 2014 we saw how (humanity) people reacted. What did we owe to our children I heard you once say in a community forum? “We owe to our children the future we had promised them, when we brought them into this world, a future that has a future. A future we have inherited from our ancestors, but have only borrowed from those who will come after us.”

Emma worked so hard to make this future one safe for all. I believe as a voice of one she achieved that vision. I will strive to continue her work. I am still the voice of one. No the voice of many …………..the voice of Emma…………the voice of you ………………and we are the voice of one any longer.

I hope I will hear from you but if not, my echo will still resound as yours.

Mathew
Arrowtown
New Zealand

LEGACY OF LANDFILL

New visitors to the chronicles from the future may first wish to visit the past, by reading the earlier hologramletters. (see the older listings on the right, go to the bottom and click the link to the earlier hologramletters)

NOTE The following is an adaptation from the soon to be released book ‘Letters From 2030’. To register interest on its release, or to order a copy email Bob Williamson via this link.

Anthony’s reflections on the past as the seasons were in green and vibrant balance had filled his dreams during the night. He had woken smiling as if still there but soon was shaken to reality by the coldness of life as it was in 2030.

There was still an hour before it was time to switch on the monitors and check for any hologramletters from those he was still in contact with, or from others who may find a way of communicating from their isolation. He paced from room to room wishing the time away. Now at 77, time for him was running out, as it had for man with complacent indecision by the world’s policy makers to collectively demand global emission reductions in the first and second decade and return the planet to a safe and habitable world.

The horizon was dark and threatening as he looked out. Extreme storms and cyclones that once only punished the tropical north now regularly battered the southern city of Perth. He feared today another would strike.

He could wait no longer to switch on the monitors. If the hail came as he knew it would it may disrupt his power supply or damage the roof top solar panels. He flicked the switch and was greeted by his old friend Randell.


February 1st 2030

Bob,

Things are getting real bad here for our everyday essential water supplies as chemicals from the old landfills are now leaching through the groundwater into the wells we get the water from to serve our town. On top of that we can’t use the water in the system to fight fires either, because it’s now become flammable due to high level of chemicals contaminating it. I think maybe all that plastic made from oil we dumped into landfill has started to react with the other chemicals we chucked in there over the last fifty or sixty years or so.

Now I have been thinking about this lately Bob, and talking to the others too, coz you said that one day even though they told us plastic doesn’t break down in landfill, you reckoned that mixed with the right chemicals or other stuff we had dumped in there, it might just break down back into some type of fossil fuel like we made it out of, and then leach into the groundwater. I’m thinking that’s what’s happened here.

You and I urged people to stop throwing all the junk in the landfills for decades. They never took what you and I told them to heart and kept digging bigger and bigger landfills to dump in everything they could, including the cocktail of chemicals that now are coming back to haunt us.

...

As he watched Randells thoughts unfold, he remembered telling him and other folks on the radio show back in 2009, about how much oil had been used just to make the PET plastic bottles we used for sodas and water in the US in just one year. His research back in '09 found out that 1lb of PET to make plastic bottles took 0.13 of a gallon of oil.

...

I wrote it down at the time when you told us Bob, that in 2007 we dumped 4,287 billion lbs of plastic bottles into landfill across the US in just that one year. That was the equivalent embodied oil loss to landfill was 557.3 billion gallons or 12.67 billion barrels. I remember you told us that you’d looked at the period from 1996 to 2007 and worked out the oil lost to landfill for 36,350 billion lbs of PET plastic bottles dumped, was the equivalent to a loss of oil used to make them of 4,725.5 billion gallons or 107.4 billion barrels of oil.

Anyway yesterday was the first time we tried to fight a fire with the heavily contaminated water. Truck 81 was right behind me as we arrived at a house fire; they engaged their pump and the water just erupted in flames like it was pure gasoline in the hose. Thinking it was just that hydrant I ordered unit 82 to pump from across the street and the same thing happened.
We lost the house by the time we drained the useless water from our tanks and filled up from the river.

In my now 43 years of fighting fires I have never seen water so tainted that it couldn’t be used to fight a fire. We are now going to have to use water from the river for fire fighting and I just hope the chemicals don’t get into that water source through the storm drains or we’ll then be up shit creek.

Bob I don’t know what it will take, or even if we can, distil the water from the wells to make it safe to drink. I just know that we are going to have to find a way and do it, to survive. Until then, folks that haven’t got their own rain water tanks and filters are gonna have tote their water up from the river while it’s still running in the winter time.

Big oil and chemical companies have screwed us out of a planet. More later, I’ve gotta go fight another fire.

Randell Byrd
Independence Virginia

...

As the now unnamed tropical cyclone rolled in from the north he switched off all monitors and moved to the relative safety of the central room.

He picked up the book and opened it to his warnings back in 2008:

Waste management authorities tell us that there are numerous problems with landfills. They are designed to support the throwaway economy of the industrial system of consumption, which in itself is designed for demise, leaving us an array of legacies. They now with 20/20 hindsight can tell us of methane emissions from commingled waste and its contribution to greenhouse gases, that food, paper, garden organics, and wood will continue to decompose, providing a legacy of emissions added to by every tonne dumped in ever increasing volumes. They tell us of water table contamination. Toxic waste had been historically dumped, with no plans or strategies in place to cope with the inevitable positive feedbacks. They tell us of heavy metals and e-waste contamination, and of organic breakdown and overall loss of resources. They can however admit they shouldn’t have located residential developments on closed landfill sites, or located these sites on flood plains or in coastal areas, soon to become prone to sea level rises.

He looked down as he returned the book to its familiar place on the table near the window. He could see the swirling blue green algal blooms now reaching out across what was once back in 2000, a pristine river system alive and vibrant. If there were others that could see this poisoned landscape now dead and stagnant, they would echo his cry of ‘We didn’t know what we would loose until it had gone.

Seasons of Remembrance

New visitors to the chronicles from the future may first wish to visit the past, by reading the earlier hologramletters. (see the older listings on the right, go to the bottom and click the link to the earlier hologramletters)

NOTE The following is an adaptation from the soon to be released book ‘Letters From 2030’. To register interest on its release, or to order a copy email Bob Williamson via this link.

Today would be a hologramletter bringing back many memories of a world in balance. A time that had, like the many species of fauna and flora been extinguished by catastrophic climate change events in the third decade of the 21st century.

He walked to the monitors to see the past as it had been through Anthony’s memories and how it now was at the HAARP compound.


January 31st 2030

Hi Bob

Do you remember Terry Jacks’ song, ‘Seasons in the Sun.’ This morning, I awoke with this now ancient melody playing in my head. Just like the chorus - our seasons - although they are not gone or altered and who knows when they will be sustainable again.

Normally it is right off to the kitchen/galley to start the meal for the early birds. In this I find much peace and tranquillity. A small sense of home and normality is found in preparing meals. With that ditty running through my brain however, I took some time for quiet reflection.

Closing my eyes, I was rapidly transplanted into the farmhouse where I grew up. The upstairs had five bedrooms, a full bath and a six-foot hallway down its center. That old farmhouse made the place I had on the Iowa River look like a starter kit. In my mind I ran through all the rooms and headed down the bannister staircase, pausing briefly, to glance out the stain glass window upon the landing. There before my eyes was my old dog Lumus, part wolf and part German Shepherd and there stood the old lilac tree in full bloom. A reminder of the blissful days of spring playing baseball, as it was the second base. Across the driveway and a narrow patch of the yard, which lead down to the nearest barn, was a field of winter wheat, glistening, golden in the morning sun.

Down the remainder of the five steps I flew. Walking now I saw the old gas stove: recalling the blower beneath it that spread its generous warmth while lying before it covered in a blanket, upon many a sub-zero winter afternoon, the air filling the blanket like a tent and escaping into the room about my head. Off to the side of the stove were two old oak sliding doors, which led to a formal dinning room we seldom used. I slipped into the kitchen bathed in the early morning rays of yellow sunlight. Looking out the screen door I inhaled the freshness of the air. Peeping into the adjacent room, converted from whatever its original purpose was, to become a plant symposium. I noticed my mother out the bay windows. Out the kitchen screen door I ran, leaping from the colonnade porch to land beside her. She was there tending to young seedlings in the hothouse.

Behind her were the old cellar doors. Another memory of a stormy night gripped me, when my sister and I, struggling against a tyrant wind, clinging to each other as we battled to raise one of the doors and descend into the safety of that underground haven; a haven that was shelter from tornadoes as well as a repository for years of canned produce. The memory of that stormy night in 1969 is a staunch reminder that Mother Nature and I are old friends for I was not picked up upon the wind and whisked unto the Land of Oz. . . . Flashing back to standing there beside my mother and the hothouse, I notice violets growing along the cellar doors. It must have been late April or early May.

I recall so clearly spring back then. You could count upon a gentle transition of temperatures from winter to summer. There was a steady and timely growth of the flora with a greening of the grass, budding flowers, blooming trees, and more budding flowers etc. It was a time when the patterns of nature, the biota and atmosphere were in sync, when the calendar and the weather were on the same page. Fall was filled with gradually cooling temperatures and leaves changing color and floating from the trees, when every evening and weekend was spent outside to reap the joy from whatever warm days were left, before leading into a winter of harsh skies and long frozen nights. Memories of ice-skating under a full moon fill my mind, not to mention anxiously awaiting snow days, an escape from school. There is a thought Bob, what will the childhood of the young remember kindly from this world our generation has bestowed unto them be? It was right then, the seasons, while under change in the early 1970's they still held the semblance of being sustainable and sweet. Of course I was 6-10 years old and my memories may be weak now, or altered in recall to create a more – Norman Rockwellian existence.

Before I floated back to the reality about me, I allowed myself a few more moments in the yard. I stood there batting collected Jonathan apples out into the orchard for the cows to eat. A heinous chore as a child, now a happy memory; see what I mean about recall. I then took a walk around the garden and marvelled at its glory. There were twenty rows of potatoes, twelve each of peas, green beans, horticulture beans (a soup bean). Of course there were the tomatoes, peppers, onions, corn, carrots, beats, cucumbers, lima beans (yuck), squash, pumpkins and radishes, with the rows themselves being nearly seventy-five feet long. The garden is still a very vivid memory. One does not spend twelve to fourteen hours a day as a child, upon a colonnade porch in the shade of an old oak tree shelling and snapping beans and soon, if ever, forget. It is like the memory of that closest barn, with its flaking white paint. A two-sided corn crib with a pathway built through the center for tractors to pass. I can still see the old ladder that leads up into the top, upon the bottom rung hung wires. These were used by me, the youngest in the family, who couldn’t hold a chicken up and pick it at the same time. We would raise and butcher anywhere from 300-600 chickens a year for the freezers. I never became a vegan, although I severely limited my intake of meat. For years I avoided chicken, now however, a chicken dinner sounds like a treat. I truly wonder if there is any left upon the planet? After the millions of migratory birds died and people still ignored the reality before them and wondered what was happening and why. How many bird species have been lost during this rapid climate change?

Then I was back in the barracks. Jay was stirring around looking up at me he asked, ‘you all right, you got a dazed and stupid look on your face?’ Realizing my son knew nothing of my childhood and early home life. I simply smiled back and said, ‘never better.’ As I was heading out the door, he gave me a questioning look, as per my sanity. A look I have seen before and suspect I will see again.

Today Bob! Today I cornered the Rev. Ted Haggard. I suppose I am still feeling somewhat giddy over reliving my past this morning. So forgive me, the writer/artist wants to play. So let me relate to you what happened in a novel fashion . . .

“Ted,” Anthony called out. Ted, seeing him started to turn around and head down the hallway. Anthony had been a fan of Science Fiction in his teen years. He had devoured everything written by Frank Herbert after reading the Dune series. Over the years he had practiced the use of Voice, finding that it actually worked. So, slipping into what he called his drill sergeant voice, he barked out. “Ted! Stop. We need to talk.” A slight vibration was seen cruising through Ted as he froze in his tracks and turned around.

Remarking sarcastically Ted said, “What can I do for you-fearless-leader.”

Oh crap, Bob. Patricia/Katey just came in. We had a momentary lost of power down in the remote horticultural centers. Patricia had shifted their power source to the back up solar arrays. I am heading down with her to the security center to see what is up. I will fill you in later.

...Bob, one of the relay stations out in the mountains was blown up. Jay and Max came into the command center just when Patricia pulled up the image. We had to talk them down from wanting to mount an immediate exploratory mission. It is a given from what I saw that this was the work of the marauders. I suspect they are growing suspicious from rumors floating about that there is an underground outpost nearby, well, that and the fresh produce baskets and plots we have put out. I calmed down Jay and Max, they will go out tomorrow night, the two of them, and set up a surveillance post in the region. I told them under no circumstances are they to be seen. They are not to eliminate anybody, unless they are seen. We want to give off the impression that the relay stations’ power system, while live, does not go anywhere populated. It is a damn good thing that those stations and lines stop at the bottom of the mountain, then are buried deep underground. I doubt the marauders will go to the effort of digging them up and tracing them back here. The plan is to scout the area out, find out what is going on for sure and only conduct repairs if we are 100 percent certain this was not marauder related. I have been reassured that our power supplies are not in jeopardy and there is still ample backup solar power should we need it to replace the geothermal.

Max - now he is new to the unit. I have my suspicions to tell you the truth. I am still not convinced that he is not a mole. Jay and the squad have really taken to this dude. The Sci squad and The Others avoid him like a plague. He is in his early fifties, was a navy seal and in a special force’s unit for the LAPD, or so he claims. He did prove valuable in researching Ted although. He lifted his prints so we could conduct a search on him. The good reverend Ted is a convict. Not to mention his name is not Ted. I will relay this all to you in the next transmission.

For now Bob, even here at the HAARP compound, I am once again reminded that power is a luxury. It is amazing, having been here for less than two years, and once again I take this for granted. It wasn’t that long ago that we traveled north by night, using solar powered yard lights, to guide our way. Of course we outfitted them with black snap covers for easy dousing of the light. We relied upon magnesium fire starter kits I had collected over the years to start fires for cooking and heat. It is almost like we went from being civilized to hunter-gatherers and back again. If you can call what we did and how we lived as civilized? I don’t. With regret I forget that any survivors in the badlands are stuck in a hellish futuristic survivor reality. A reality that even writers like Frank Herbert failed to convey to us.

Until the Saga of the Good Reverend Ted then.

He has come around by the way.

It is time to create a new religion from the chaos of man, with reverend charlatan leading the way. It is time to create a religion based upon sustainability and being a part of Gaia’s cycles.

As always, winging it without a prayer. Foflol.

Your friend Anthony.


He replayed the scenes of the seasons in balance and reflected on the prophetic words of John F Kennedy in the 1960’s “The Supreme Reality of Our Time is Vulnerability of our Planet"

MAN’S LAST FRIEND

New visitors to the chronicles from the future may first wish to visit the past, by reading the earlier hologramletters. (see the older listings on the right, go to the bottom and click the link to the earlier hologramletters)

NOTE The following is an adaptation from the soon to be released book ‘Letters From 2030’. To register interest on its release, or to order a copy email Bob Williamson via this link.

"What is this?" he thought to himself as the incoming transmission light flickered; he watched the screen light up with a face he hadn’t seen before. He saw the old man as he went about his day getting ready to send out his daily ‘message in bottle’. His 2030 call from his own deserted island, his lonely refuge in a troubled world.

...

Sam plodded through the boggy ground and headed back to the house. He knew Joe would be up by now. His early morning strolls no longer rustled up any game or vegetation for him to bring back, but he was a creature of habit and continued his daily routine as he had for most of his years. Behind the closed door Joe was rustling in the kitchen; grumbling and clanging until the coffee was ready. It was an event filled day when they came across those supplies; 2 days walk from where they lived and Joe had fallen through a soft spot in the bogs. Where he landed happened to be an old fall-out shelter, filled with canned goods and crates of coffee. It took them over a week to get back home with Joe's sprained ankle and wrist, but it was worth it.

Sam quietly waited outside the door until he heard Joe walk over to the old make-shift desk he'd built out of salvaged materials after the torrential rains and flooding had turned into the more often than not yellow-green haze that they now live in. Once Joe settled down at the desk and began banging away at the keys, Sam nudged open the door, padded over and sat down behind him. Joe reached down without skipping a beat and scratched Sam behind the ears. "We gots ta keep sendin out da mess'ges Sam, sooner 'er later someone's gonna git 'em en maybe we kin find s'm'uther s'pplies. Maybe today'll be the day, eh boy?"

His transmission was always the same. Joe wasn't much for chat, just wanted to make connection with anyone that may be around...

"'...there anuh'one out there? I'm holdin' up here on a mount'n, not quite sure's 'bouts where, looks to me like 'twer'n ol loggin 'er minin town. Jus me'n m'dog Sam here. Gimme a holla back if ya kin. Shore wud likin t'be hearin from ya. Joe."

Joe sat back waiting for the messages to send with a thoughtful expression, "Wern't so long ago we'd be out trekin up a bird er two were it Sam?" Sampson sat close to Joe slowly wagging his tail. He'd always loved to listen when Joe talked, knowing he never had to answer with anything more than a nuzzle or wag of his tail. As old Joe started rambling on, Sampson curled at his feet. Joe stopped typing... "Used to be that we'd git up 'round'bouts 4 am 'fore the Missus was bakin the biscuits cuz that's when we still hads us the farm'n all. 's all washed away there now I'm 'bouts sure a that."

When the buzz and grind of the old computer's hard drive whirring and straining to send the messages silenced, Sampson stood and waited for Joe to get up out of his chair. Joe grabbed his coffee mug and shuffled back to the kitchen, Sam close at foot, knowing it was time for breakfast. As Joe scraped the last bits out of the pot onto Sam's plate and set it down to the floor, the computer beeped. Sam's ears perked and Joe froze in place, mid-hunch to standing back up. Slowly straightening, his eyes never leaving the screen, Joe read the notice "message received - transmission complete" blinking back at him... the screen went blank.

...

He stood and reflected on old Joe and his faithful friend Sam. The memory of the tribute made to a man’s best friend on a fall day in 1870 came back to him. He searched the library archive file for the transcript of the court case in Warrensburg for the closing words of country lawyer George Graham Vest. He stood by the outgoing hologramletter screen and spoke to old Joe and his ever watchful and ever faithful mans best friend:

Joe and Sam,

I hear your letter from afar and although I can not be of direct help, I hope you both will take heart that others will one day reach out to you. You stirred a distant memory I would like to share with you from a courtroom of a time less troubled than the one we now have created. From 1870 comes the following tribute, and I can see from your love for each other it's as true today in 2030 as it was 16o years ago.

"Gentlemen of the jury, the best friend a man has in this world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter whom he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us--those whom we trust with our happiness and good name--may become traitors in their faith. The money that a man has he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us may be the 1st to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads. The one absolute, unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world--the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous--is his dog.

"Gentlemen of the jury, a man's dog stands by him in prosperity and poverty, in health and sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow, and the snow drives fiercely, if only he can be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer; he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert; he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens.

"If fortune drives the master forth an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard against danger, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all comes, and death takes the master in its embrace, and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even to death."

Joe you will never need for more reliable support than your Noble Dog Sam.