Here is a word search puzzle based on Alma 32:23, which says:
And now, he imparteth his word by angels unto men, yea, not only men but women also. Now this is not all; little children do have words given unto them many times, which confound the wise and the learned.
This PFD has the puzzle, the solution, and instructions so you can download and print it out.
Here, from my soon to be available book, “265 Flippin Jazillion,” is a newspaper column I wrote several years ago:
It has been brought to my attention that I have written about cats a number of times, but never about dogs. This, I have been told, is unfair.
I’m not a big fan of diversity for diversity’s sake. Nor do I feel that every species deserves and should demand equal attention here. Good grief—soon the International Gerbil Coalition will be protesting at my door.
“But you should write at least one column about dogs. After all, they are man’s best friend,” a certain admirer of canines informed me.
Be careful what you ask for.
The closest I ever came to injuring myself with laughter was due to a bulldog named Clarence.
The darling pet of a buddy’s girlfriend, Clarence was quite possibly the ugliest dog alive. He was a short, broad, muscle-bound English bulldog who resembled Winston Churchill. But that’s not all. He was also an albino, with almost translucent skin and weird, pink eyes.
The poor mutt had long ago lost the vision in his left eye, and the skin hung down from his baggy face hiding his right one. In other words, he was literally blind in one eye and couldn’t see out of the other.
Clarence was a good-natured fellow and would sometimes use his limited ability to see as an excuse to do outlandish things. Walking on the family cat seemed to be a particular favorite.
During a quiet evening, Clarence would stand up, yawn, and amble off toward the kitchen, which, normally, he could steer a direct path to. But should the cat have made the tactical error of falling asleep on the living-room carpet, Clarence would veer off course and “accidentally” tromp right over the snoozing feline.
The cat, of course, would wake up hissing and on guard and would instinctively slap Clarence in the face. The bulldog, pretending to be the picture of innocence, would put on a confused expression that seemed to say, “What did I do?”
This look would then turn to outrage.
“Listen, cat,” his face seemed to say, “you started this. So don’t blame me for what’s about to happen.”
The cat, sensing a change in the dog’s temperament, would take off running. At that point, what could poor, abused Clarence reasonably be expected to do but give chase?
The living room was connected to the dining room by a large, open archway. From the dining room, if you turned right, you entered a hallway, at the end of which was a bedroom. If you walked into that bedroom and again turned right, you ended up back in the living room where you started.
This is the circuit around which Clarence—who was really quite fast for dog of his bulk—would chase the cat. After one or two go-rounds, the cat would dash under the couch where big-headed Clarence couldn’t get her. Why she didn’t just run under the couch to begin with, I don’t know.
One evening my buddy and I were at his girlfriend’s house, where the three of us sat watching the Ed Sullivan Show. Suddenly my friend nudged me and nodded toward Clarence, who had stood up and was yawning. I had heard about this routine, but had never actually seen it.
Sure enough, Clarence strode off, taking a path that led directly over the sleeping cat, who woke up and gave the dog a dope-slap right across the chops. And then, there it was, just as I had been told: the innocent look, the outrage, and then the chase.
Clarence could fairly well keep up with the cat except when going down the hallway where the old bulldog’s toenails caused him to loose traction on the hardwood floor. However, by doubling his efforts, Clarence was usually able to catch up again.
Off they went, from living room to dining room to hallway. We could hear Clarence’s nails scraping on the wood as he struggled to make up lost ground.
This night, to my great good fortune, there was an unexpected twist to the routine. Because the bedroom was messy, the girl’s mother had shut the door that led back into the living room.
The cat, running at near the speed of light, entered the bedroom, saw that the door was closed, and jumped left onto the unmade bed.
Clarence, having managed to get some traction, came full speed into the bedroom, but failed to notice that the exit was blocked. With the power of a locomotive, he crashed into the bottom panel of the old-fashioned wooden door. The panel popped out, landing—along with Clarence—in the middle of the living room. The bulldog, unhurt, promptly jumped to his feet and quickly turned this way and that, searching with his good eye, as if to say, “Where’s da cat? Where’s da cat?”
To this day, I imagine that the cat was probably rolling around on the bed, helpless with laughter.
Of course, I can only imagine what the cat was doing at the time, because my friend and I, ourselves, were rolling around helpless with laughter. We laughed so hard and long that our eyes watered and our noses ran. Eventually, my stomach muscles began to cramp, threatening to lock into a full blown charley horse if I didn’t stop.
Whenever we managed—panting—to calm down and almost get control, one or the other would say in a dumb-dog sort of voice, “Where’s da cat?” and we would again collapse into paralyzing fits of mirth.
Finally, the girl, in exasperation, threw us both out.
And I, also in exasperation, have now written a dog column.
Gerbils are going to have to sue me.
