When your show and tell is a human.

My husband loves to play disc golf. So, when we travel, we often find local disc golf stores. They're usually strip-mall affairs peopled by the disc golf world's version of stoner surfer dudes. But the folks are always nice and quick with a referral to a good local course. We support a local business. Everybody wins.

Our most recent local disc golf shop was something else. It was inside an office building and was a disc golf shop-slash-insurance billing office. But the owner? Well, he was a gem.

As My Guy looked at the assortment of discs, the shop owner told us about two local courses that would be a good fit. And, well, they were both named after guys who had been instrumental in bringing the sport to town. They were his high school history teacher and that teacher's best friend.

And then? Then, this gentleman whipped out his high school yearbook. It easily fell open to a page that had obviously been accessed often and displayed a quarter-page photo of a guy who looked like Jim Henson.

"See, in 1979, 1980, you were supposed to respect and fear your teachers," he said. "But Jim wasn't that kind of guy. He made you feel important. He'd be walking down the hall with other teachers, and he'd leave them to come talk to you. He'd give you a hug and ask about you and make you feel like a person.

"Well, he started the first disc golf tournament in town, and got me and my buddies into the sport." He pulled a disc off the wall. "This was the disc from that tourney. I felt pretty special having this disc that my teacher gave me. Talk about feeling like a big man the next Monday at school!"

Somewhere in this dialogue, I went from being charmed to being completely torn apart and oozing with love for this man and his history teacher.

Cancer got the teacher in the 90s. But he made such a big impact that my new friend keeps his 40-year-old yearbook at the ready, poised to talk about the man who had such a big impact on his life.

Life goals: be so kind that someone keeps your yearbook at the ready.

Three people who change my life every day.*

My dachshund attempted to eat the tennis balls off of an older lady's walker while my giant labradoodle made sweet, sweet love to his human girlfriend.

Let me back up.

The dogs and I walk every day. If it's actively precipitating and we can't go, there is great unrest in the pack. We walk! That's what we do!

Maybe 18 months ago, we made a new friend on our jaunt around the neighborhood. There's a family-owned barbershop a block over, and the mom of the owner does nails. She was sitting outside on a bench in the sun when we came by.

Big Doodle basically attacked her with slobber and love. He just knew she was his person. Their love was mutual and immediate.

Since then, the barbershop has become a can't-miss destination. When Big Doodle hurt his leg at the beginning of the year, our goal was for him to be able to walk to the barbershop. It was necessary for his emotional well being. They are his pack.

The pack has expanded to include the owner of the shop and the lovely woman who does hair. They let us come in and shed all over. They then ply the pups with dog treats and popcorn.

Yes. They save day-old popcorn and bring in treats just for Big Doodle and Lil' Frankfurter.

At first, Lil' Frank was scared and did his usual cowering routine. But now? Now, he feels completely safe and will get a little pushy about wanting - nay, requiring - his recommended dose of popcorn.

So, Lil' Frank lets folks pet him, and Big Doodle makes the rounds, gooing on whoever will talk sweet to him and offer a few pets. It's clearly the highlight of their days - mine, too.

Today, an older lady was getting her hair set when we stopped by. Her walker was standing next to the barber chair. No big deal.

The dogs enjoyed their popcorn and their pets. And then? Lil' Frank noticed the walker. It had split tennis balls on the bottom of the legs so that it would glide easier.

Tennis balls! Lil' Frank lost his mind. He was so excited! He then attempted to remove the balls from the walker.

Meanwhile, everyone laughed and Big Doodle slobbered on his girlfriend and she cooed, "Oh, Doodle, I just love you so much!"

Is it any wonder that when we walk by on Sundays, we must all stand forlorn at the door, pouting?**

I'm thankful for these kind people who welcome our ragtag crew.

*Except on Sundays.
**One Sunday we were pouting and the owner pulled up right then and there, as if on a mighty white steed. He let us in and of course provided popcorn. Now, Big Doodle thinks that if he just pouts long enough, this should happen each time.