Friday Firesmith – Betsy Murgatroyd, I Love You!

At some point in time, you will meet someone who will become special. You’ll hold hands for the first time, and from that moment on, even if it’s seventy years later, you’ll hold hands with that person for the last time.

When I was a little kid, my vocabulary and speech patterns were littered with sayings I had picked up from cartoons and from the older people around me, and nearly everyone around was older because anyone younger couldn’t talk yet.

I remember the phrase, “God Doggit” and that was the first phrase that got me into any trouble. All the kids said, “God Doggit!” and one day, Janice Kelly, who was prim and proper, and thought that phrase was just too close to “God dammit!” decided to talk the other parents in the neighborhood into banning it. It was my first lesson in pointless and empty censorship, but as a kid, I got used to it.

Likewise, there were parents who didn’t think children ought to say, “Darn!” and some of us really did. We used phrases that sound odd now. To threaten someone, you would tell them you were going to get on them, “Like a duck on a June Bug” even though most of us had no idea what a June Bug was.

“What in tarnation?” was the great grandfather of “WTF?” We called other boys “yellow” if they didn’t accept a dare, and anyone who wouldn’t climb to the top of a tree or throw a rock at a wasp nest was “chicken”.

“I did it for a lark” meant you did something just for the fun of it. That was something our parents said often, but it was dying out.

“Groovy” was a word everyone used, and I still use it. I remember back in the early 70s when “ripped off” became popular. The police were “the pigs” to a lot of people, and I’m happy to see that one go, actually. Hearing someone say “You’re bringing me down” isn’t heard as often either.

But I remember when “Dadgumit” and “Dagnabit” ruled the world of slang. “Damn” and “Hell” were words we used in secret and not often.

There was a cartoon character named Snaglepuss who used to say, “Heavens to Murgatroyd!” which was merely a play on the phrase, “Heavens to Betsy!” even though when we were kids we thought he was saying, “Heavens to murder Troy.” The story of the Trojan Horse was well known to us, and I posited the phrase to mean the Greek Gods were being called upon to murder the city of Troy. I went decades thinking Zeus had inspired Snaglepuss. You’ve likely never read that last sentence before, ever.

Yesterday, I dropped a bottle of hot sauce on the kitchen floor at work and it ricocheted and bounced like a frog on a hot skillet. I didn’t mean to say it, but the word Fu@k! came out and half the office heard it. That’s my go-to curse word apparently. I blame Janice Kelly for banning the phrase God Dogit.

What’s your go-to or favorite cuss word?

Take Care,


Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit. Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.


Friday Firesmith – In Memory of Curt

As happy as I might be, and I am, about having grown up way before the age of cell phones and constant video recording of each and every moment of a life, I regret not having more photos, any photos actually, of people whom I once loved. At age fifty-eight plus, the dead are beginning to outnumber the living as far as people that I once knew, and once loved, and I wish I had more of their lives to remember, other than just memories.

In three weeks, Curt will have been dead for five years. He’s someone I first met in 1969, when we were both in the third grade. Curt and I would remain friends for most of our lives. He was the person who shared hard rock and roll with me for the first time. Pink Floyd, Black Sabbath, Jimi Hendrix, Yes, Jethro Tull, as well as a little known group named White Witch, and other obscure music. Curt was a guitar player, and a good one, but he never quite believed in himself, or his music.

We both thought that cassette tapes would never replace eight track tapes. And we thought vinyl albums would never die. (We were right!) We both started smoking cigarettes and pot before we hit high school. We started drinking before we were old enough to drive. We lived together for a while in an apartment without AC, a microwave, a television, or a phone of any sort. We dated sisters and we never wore seat belts, both very dangerous things to do.

The 80’s saw Curt getting married and settling down, to a degree, and me joining the Army. I went my way, Curt went his way, and by the middle of the 80’s, Curt and I weren’t together very much anymore. His drinking became more of a habit than a party. He never stopped smoking cigarettes. Curt got married, had two kids, and then went through a really bad divorce in the early oughts. He did remarry, eventually, but his life was already ending at that point. Curt had a job without insurance so he hesitated to seek medical help no matter how terrible he felt. When he did go, and they found the cancer, it was already very late. For a man unable to work to get quality treatment for a deadly disease in America, many things have to go well and go right. Many things did not.

Curt died of lung cancer. He died slowly. He died in pain. He died drowning in his own blood, choking to death at the end as his body was torn apart by the disease and by the chemicals used to try to kill it. He died terrified and without a sense of hope.

I don’t have any photos of Curt, no videos, and nothing to show you of his music or his life. Eventually, one day, I’ll be gone, and the one-man concerts with a one-man audience will be totally gone from this earth.

I miss Curt. Who are you missing?
Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.


Friday Firesmith – You are an alien experiment

Have you ever wondered what aliens would do to us if they really wanted to test the limits of human endurance? Traffic and grocery shopping, that’s my bet. And the parking lots of grocery stores? Pure gold for the alien scientist who is looking to measure what metrics drive humans to homicide. That has to be it. Nothing else explains better the behavior of human beings in traffic and while shopping than alien influence. Or stupidity. Aliens are more fun to write about.

It’s the five o’clock rush. There’s a section of US84 heading west to Quitman between I-75 and Rocky Ford Road that’s weird and dangerous. People like me are trying to head west out of Valdosta. Then there are those that are going out via Rocky Ford. Then there are people making right turns off 84 in between. The Solution? It’s just over a mile of driving. Stay in your lane.

Right off the bat yesterday, a pickup truck pulling a box trailer, a very large box trailer, was heading west, after five, towards Quitman. Yep, I have to share the road with this. He’s put on his left blinker, then his right blinker, and then he pulled into the turn lane, and then back out again. I decide to drop back. The One Word of Truth here is this: An Idiot in front of you is less dangerous than an idiot behind you. The Aliens nod in agreement. This is a test. They want to see who is paying attention. So they throw in the unexpected. The truck pulls into the middle lane, then suddenly turns right, cutting off both westbound lanes, and nearly clipping someone making right in the right turn lane. Nicely done, Aliens, but I was far enough back to brake out of it.

The grocery store is likewise crowded. I am out of food so I must go in. I park a half mile away because there are people, able-bodied people, who would pull into the front door if they could. There’s a couple arguing, loudly, as they shop, and they brought their two kids. They have a cart, and each child has been given one. The two kids are drag racing one another in a crowded store. The parents’ modus operandi is to park the cart in the aisle and then wander off while arguing over who gets “the good car” tomorrow. She has the kids. But he has to go to Albany. I want to suggest letting the kids push him to Albany in the carts and the Aliens smile at my thoughts.

The Aliens never directly affect us. They plant small thoughts in our heads and then measure our reactions. The thought arrives and before they can start the timer, I am off like a saucer. Let’s go over to the pharmacy and pick up few items, good, and then let’s stalk the Albany Gang. Perfect. They’re in dairy and their cart is around the corner in the snack aisle.
Insert one Box Condoms, Large Size, as in physical size, not count, insert one paternity test, and insert one package of one tube of magical heating personal lubrication, into their cart, hidden under the package of cube steak.

Exit stage left.

The Aliens grin.

Take Care,

firesmithMike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.


Friday Firesmith – The Brindle Badger vs. The Armadillo

I live in peace with Nature, as much as I can, and in return, Nature doesn’t promise me a damn thing. Nature is inherently violent with very little consideration, nay, no consideration for the young or the old, the injured or the weak. Nature weeds out those unable to adapt, and does so without compassion or mercy. If you cannot live in the wild then you are already dying once you get there.

Human beings, without the trappings of civilization, will die very quickly in the woods. They can’t go anywhere without boots or other clothes, and they are mostly harmless without weapons. Comparatively speaking, humans are slow animals, and they cannot fly, swim, run, make webs or inject venom. Without guns and things that run on gasoline, we’re pretty much dead as soon as the water runs out, or as soon as the nearest apex predator can spend a few moments alone with us.

When we took wolves and turned them into dogs, some dogs were left with more wolf in them than others. Even dogs like pugs, dachshunds, and Chihuahuas, still have some wolf in there, somewhere, and the fact that we’ve locked a wolf up in the body of a barking rat doesn’t diminish that urge to be a predator.

For many years I made a conscious decision not to get smaller dogs. Lilith Anne pushes the scales over at a respectable sixty-five pounds, and Tyger Linn is a bit over fifty pounds. Yet the new boys on the block, Wrex Wyatt and Budlore Amadeus, both are about thirty-five pounds; very light for Hickory Head Hounds. Chamber Linn, young and foolish, is also light, at about thirty-five pounds. I don’t have the pack I need to keep the Coyotes at bay, and I know it.

So Friday morning I let the dogs out, and they ran into the darkness, which is fine. A few minutes later no one came in for breakfast so I went looking. The time was just before five. I found Bud heading towards the house. Whatever it is, in Bud’s mind, if it isn’t breakfast, he isn’t interested. Bud was abandoned and he’s not missing meals in the name of a damn thing. I got him inside, fed him, and went back out. Wrex showed up as I was walking out. He was secured and fed.

I found both Lilith and Chamber in a cavern dug by the Cousin Canines a year ago. It’s a sizable bunker under the shed, and both surrendered to the idea of going inside without comment. They both were fed and I went out looking for my Problem Child, Tyger Linn.
At the bunker, I could hear Tyger chewing on something hard, like a shell, like an armadillo shell, but I couldn’t see her in the cave. I feared for a second she might be trapped by the sides falling in, but the dirt seemed packed. I went to the rear of the shed and there’s a foxhole the Cousins dug there, I got down on my hands and knees and shined the flashlight deep under the shed. An armadillo had dug a burrow there, apparently, and out of the entrance of the burrow, I saw the hind legs and tail of Tyger Linn sticking out.

Now, I called, threatened, cajoled, and sang her favorite song to her, but Tyger Linn was not coming out. And I wondered if she could. Her back legs were up in the air and her head was pointing downwards, hidden from view of course. After the wettest six months in South Georgia history, the dirt under the shed was a sea of mud. But I had to go in, and I couldn’t take the flashlight because I was going to have to use both hands. I slid on my belly like a snake until I felt a leg, then two legs, and I started to puuuuullllll.

Tyger began making light pitched noises like a pig squealing. WHHHEEEEEEE! WHEEEEEEE! WHEEEEEEEEE! And I could tell she still had something in her mouth. After a minute or so of steady pressure, she released her bladder, because she likely went into the burrow right after I let her out of the house, and she really had to go, and she let go of whatever was in her mouth. Tyger began slipping out of the hole more easily, and as soon as I could, I reached in and slipped a leash around her neck. I thought there was a fair chance Tyger might come out swinging, and if she did, I wanted to have something to hang onto her as I retreated. But Tyger seemed to have enough. She let me pull her all the way out from under the shed, and then she lay on the ground and panted.

Tyger lay there for a while, let me look her over, and other than a skinned place on her back, there were no visible wounds. She allowed me to walk her on the leash around the property, and her right shoulder seemed tender but otherwise, Tyger was unharmed. I took her into the house, got her cleaned up and fed her. I went back outside and piled some fence posts around the entrance to the caves and blocked them.

All in all, I went back in for breakfast and coffee and realized just over an hour had passed since I found Tyger’s striped butt sticking out of a hole. I felt like a day had gone by! But the rain began again, and the dogs all lay down on the porch and snoozed. I went to work and when I came home, there were all still asleep.

Now, several days after, Tyger seems perfectly normal, but she doesn’t want anything to do with burrowing anymore.

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – 2019

Today is Friday, January 4th, 2019, and this is the first Friday Firesmith of 2019. Back in 2018, the 4th of January was sandwiched between the 3rd and 5th (which some of you might have the urge to point out it always is) but on the 3rd of January 2018, there was a rare snowfall in South Georgia, and on the 5th, Wrex Wyatt returned to Hickory Head after nearly four years. His tenure is now considered permanent.

On March the 20th, 2018, The Dog Left Hanging, Budlore Amadeus (right), came to live with us, and Bud was also to granted permanent status.

On May the 1st, 2018, I began the long and often terrible night project that would consume my life for a lot long than it should have.

On June the 28th, 2018, I grew my first Ghost Pepper. Also on June the 28th, Budlore Amadeus stole food from the kitchen counter for the last time. It was the Ghost Pepper.

On August the 26th, 2018, the Night work project ended.

On September the 10th, 2018, The Twice Dumped Dog, Arco Finney, and I, met in Lake Park Georgia. I would hang onto him as a foster dog for ten days, and he made his way into a family’s home, and became their dog. Arco was picked up by one of our rescuers originally, but the next day she dumped him at our office and walked off. Because he was heartworm positive, Acro would have been put to death at the shelter. I decided to foster him simply because I was pissed off that one of our own would do that.

On November the 19th, 2018, I picked up Tyger Timm, a brindle stray with no home and no luck. Yet on the 23, Tyger Timm was on his way to a new home.

On November the 26th, Chamber Linn, who is strikingly similar to Timm, came in as a foster, and she’s still here.

And so am I. Thanks for being here during 2018. There comes a time to look back over a year and wonder what could have been different, but also a time to be glad some things were not.

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.


Friday Firesmith – I am a Mourning Person

Because I have the Ritual Wrex, I am a morning person. Wrex, is a morning dog, a very, very, affectionate, morning dog, who wants to greet me when he wakes up. He wants me to pet him and he wants to rub his thirty-five-pound body on my face. This is the ritual of Wrex.

Budlore Amadeus, the Dog Left Hanging, also has a morning ritual; he tries to herd all the other dogs away from me. It would be nice if Bud was trying to keep the other dogs from waking me up but simple jealousy seems to be the driving force here. Tyger Linn, also jealous, tries to join the Ritual Wrex so that adds fifty pounds to the canine crowd on my face. Lilith Anne wants in on this, so before she gets there I have to get up, or they’ll find me smothered to death in my bed. Chances are, I’ll be half eaten too. If they get here in a couple of days.

Literally, I could go three or four days before anyone started to look for me. I’m pretty sure work would come looking the first day I didn’t call in, but during a long weekend or something like that, no one hears from me or expects to. This is one of the drawbacks to being a Hermit. One day, I imagine, they’ll discover I got hit by a limb in the woods, and it took three days for anyone to start looking. I’m actually good with dying in the woods. I hope to be buried there one day.

But I have to get up in the morning. The dogs know they are going to go out, and then get fed. Oh, it’s not like I can open the door, they know what to do, and then they come back in, oh no, that would be too easy. I have to go with them. I have to go out in the rain, or the cold, or the mosquito-infested heat, and stand there while they pee. Otherwise, they all just turn around and try to come back in, and I wind up with a wet spot somewhere there shouldn’t be one.

So, here we go, four dogs are inside, after peeing on the grass, and Bud gets fed first because he was a homeless dog at one time, and food is still the Best. Thing. Ever. I put him in the spare bathroom because he’s weird about food. Chamber Linn, the foster eats in her crate. Wrex Wyatt eats breakfast in the other bathroom because he likes privacy and then there’s Lilith who has her own bowl, and Tyger Linn, who… where is Tyger? Tyger is out hunting and I have to call her to come in. Always, after the second time I call, she comes in and then I have to remind Lilith Anne she is not to eat Tyger’s food.

This happens every single day of my life. I live for the day I can sleep in. I want to be one of those people who get up after dawn. I mourn for my sleep because it is dead. I am a mourning person!

Take Care,


Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – Gas Station Jacks

There was a time I was killing off people at gas stations as quickly as I found them. I was discreet about it because you can never be too careful when it comes to murder. But like all serial killers, I had quirks, and mine was to make sure they always died on the day of the week I found them, no matter how long it took me to figure out when and where and how to kill them.

I’m talking about writing, I ought to mention that now, and there for a while there were some gas stations that printed the names on creditcards on receipts. I’d use those names in fiction when someone had to die, andsomeone has to die, you know.

In case you’ve never thought about it, there’s a very good reason to kill off characters. Remember back in movie, “Titanic”? Okay, everyone, damn near, dies at the end of the movie, but you knew that before you bought the ticket, right? But Jack and Rose meet, fall in love, and then he stays in the water and allows Rose to live while he Smurfs out. The contrast between life and death is pretty sharp there. It’s supposed to be if whoever wrote it was good at what was being done. Another thousand people died in the water but no one got upset about those deaths, did they? No, the writer invented a character people invested in, and that’s why there are grown women right now who break out singing, “My Heart Will Go On” if they drop an ice cube on the kitchen floor.

Surprise is also good. You had no idea that this wasn’t about tire tools at gas stations when you read the title, did you?

You’re smiling at that last sentence, are you? Also a good thing to do, is to know when you break away from the serious stuff, like the scene where Rose cuts the handcuffs off Jack with an axe.

But for the contrast to work, it’s not important that YOU liked Jack as much as you did, but other characters had to like him as well. If Rose had been indifferent to him that would have killed some of the edge. Remember the name of her fiancée? He lived, and that was contrast, too. The good sometimes die because they sacrifice while evil slinks off into the night, to hunt again. But you don’t remember his name. That’s good writing, too, eventhough you hate the character, you do feel something, and that’s why it’s goodwriting.

That feeling people get for good characters is a community sort of feeling, and we humans are geared for it in our DNA. It’s one of the few things about people I really like, and one of the few good things to come out of tragedy, sometimes, is that human beings will come together and instead of forming a mob they form a family.

Good writing, good movies, even bad sappy movies with terrible soundtracks, sometimes, can do this. No gas station character even died without that being, in some way, the intent of their death. It’s the contrast between life and death, love and loss, and between family and a mob. Old Yeller died so you could miss his presence. Jack died so the heart could go on.

Either way, it’s good writing, and it touches us where we live the most, and where we love the hardest.

Take Care,


Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit. Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.


Friday Firesmith – Pearl

Seventy-seven years ago today, in 1941, the Empire of Japan attacked the United States of America, and the Americans discovered they were involved in World War II, even if it wasn’t called that at the time. Conspiracy theories suggest that we knew the Japanese would attack, and mostly, it’s true we did know that certain diplomatic pressures we had applied might lead to direct and bloody conflict. There was even an alert issued the weekend before, that the Japanese might attack on that Sunday. The warning was a week early.

Things got weird when the Japanese invaded China in 1937. The Japanese were already occupying Manchuria, and given a slight pretext to mount a full invasion they did. At the time, Britain, France, America, and to a lesser extent, the Dutch, were settled in nicely with their colonies in Asia. India, Burma, Vietnam, and a host of Pacific islands, including the Philippians and Hawaii, were occupied by foreign powers. The Japanese were seen as a threat to all of this, so the other colonial powers waged an economic war against Japan. Having very few sources of metal and oil, Japan had to acquiesce to the demands of the other colonial powers, which would include their withdraw from China, or fight back.

What very few of even most hardened military analysts predicted was a sweeping and comprehensive attack by Japan in nearly all directions that would totally cripple the British, French, and American outposts in the Pacific. The French and Brits, having their hands full fighting a war in Europe, looked to the United States to hold Japan in the Pacific until Europe might be secured. The Europeans idea of a “Hitler First” war, would lead to the Americans putting their full weight to fight the Germans, and sending enough against the Japanese to keep them in check. America would very quickly scrap this plan, and went after Japan with ships, planes, men, and fury.

Isoroku Yamamoto, the Japanese Marshal Admiral, and widely considered the best military mind in Japan, warned that attacking the Americans would bring destruction down upon the country, and the Americans would not hesitate to destroy Japan, and it would not take very long for it to happen. Harvard educated and likely the most knowledgeable military mind in Japan as to America’s capabilities, Yamamoto warned that unless Japan struck first, and struck hard, the war would be lost sooner than later. His advice was largely ignored, in the hopes that if Japan stuck hard enough, the Americans would be intimidated, and sue for peace.

The attack on Pearl Harbor failed to destroy the American dry docks, and it also failed to destroy the American fuel supplies. The American aircraft carriers were not in port at the time and escaped harm entirely. Those three mistakes would prove to be fatal to the Japanese plan to land a cripplingly blow to American military power in the Pacific.

In June of 1942, in the Battle of Midway, America stuck at four Japanese aircraft carriers and sunk all four of them. In June of 1943, having secured the island of Guadalcanal in five long and terrible months, the American launched from that island, the first that Japan had lost to the Americans. an air attack on a single Japanese bomber escorted by six fighters. The bomber carried Isoroku Yamamoto. His plane went down in flames, and the architect of the attack on Pearl Harbor was killed. His most famous quote on the attack on Pearl Harbor was this one: “I fear all we have done is awakened a sleeping giant, and filled him with a terrible resolve.”

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Friday Firesmith – Photo Finished

There was a small group of friends I had in High School, and right now, at this very moment, I know three are dead, one is insane, one is in Federal Prison, and I’ve lost track of two or three more. I have no photos of any of these people to prove they ever existed. There are a good half-dozen dogs I knew when I was a kid that are long gone, and I have no photos of them, either.

Cameras weren’t precision instruments when I was young. Photos didn’t always come out well. Some never came out at all. I didn’t even see a digital camera until the 1990’s. Now, you can get one out of a bubble gum machine.

I had no idea a friend of mine would be murdered in 1980. There’s no way to think it will happen to anyone, but it does happen. Car wrecks are fairly common. Cancer isn’t rare at our age. I wish I had taken more photos. I wish I had pictures of the friends I once had and the dogs I once love. I wish I had photos of some of the things I’ve seen and the places I’ve visited. But as far as photos go, the first thirty years of my life pretty much doesn’t exist, except in my mind, and the minds of other people, who are dying off, like dinosaurs on a planet that can no longer sustain them.

Don’t live your life taking photos of every second of every day, but don’t hesitate to record where you are, and who you are there with, and don’t wait until the moment is gone to wistfully wonder if your memory has it right, or if it’s just imagination.

There used to be a rope swing by the river, and for years we would go down to the Chattahoochee and swing high in the air, and land in the cool water below. There was an old wooden platform that we launched from, and if the right people got on at the right time, we could get seven or eight people on that rope. It was one of those ropes that was used to moor the tanker barges to the docks near Columbia Alabama and we were certain it would never break. One day, we were down at the river swinging as I heard a terrible cracking sound, and people were yelling. The tree had broken. It split in two and broke in the middle, and I was surprised to see the center was rotted out. No one was hurt, and that itself was a miracle, but the tree was gone, and before anyone thought to stop it, the rope tied to the piece of the broken tree floated away. It didn’t matter, because the County closed the landing in the early 80’s, and now nothing remains of the site of many fun-filled hours with people I grew up with decades ago.

Take pictures of your life. Take photos of dogs and people you love, and places that matter. One day, they will be all that’s left of a tree, a place, or a person, and you’ll wish you had more.

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.

Black Friday Firesmith

I’ve never been one to go looking for humans to help. Mark Twain once said, “The primary difference between a dog and a man lies in the fact you can feed a dog and he won’t bite you later.” That’s pretty much been my experience with people. And dogs. However, my tenure in Dog Rescue had led me to believe there are human beings out there willing to do without in order for their foster dogs to have enough to eat.

A local grocery store was having a special where if you bought thirty bucks worth of stuff you could get a turkey for five bucks. I sent out the word on FB that I would donate the turkey if someone in Rescue needed it. Once I got to the store, they were also having a special that if you got a flu shot there, they would give you a turkey. So I would up with the danger of getting autism and being tracked by the tiny microchips you know are in vaccinations, in order to have two turkeys to give away.

Meanwhile, one of the women in Rescue contacted me and told me she and her husband knew of families in need. They run a gym designed to train High School wrestlers in town, and they take in students who can’t pay their entry fees so these kids can have a chance at a scholarship, and hopefully go to college. She knows these people, and she knows their families. The turkeys had just found a home.

I’m not a man of wealth. I went in and nabbed two turkeys by spending thirty bucks. My family’s Thanksgiving was already planned, so we didn’t have the need that a family with very little might have. From what I was told about one of the families in question they were trying to find some way to find more work just to have something at all on Thanksgiving Day. Now, they have a turkey. They will have leftovers, too. It’s a pretty good sized bird.

I may not be able to respond a lot to whatever anyone had to say about all of this. I’ll be on the road Friday taking a foster dog to a new home. Tyger Timm, the dog that needed a home has one if I can get him there. It’s a five-hour drive but the person adopting Timm is someone I know will give him a home most dogs can only dream of having. I have another dog waiting for the crate in my house. The need never ends.

I’m not a big fan of charities. I think it’s a rip-off and a scam, most of the time. But when it comes down to people I know and I can trust, I know my efforts, and the food, will not be wasted. I know it’s needed.

Christmas is coming up. I’ll be looking for deals on turkeys again. Who knows? Maybe I can help the same people. Maybe someone else. But I have so much. I live a life filled with food and the ability to save dogs from starvation and deprivation. Mostly, human beings are why I have to do this, but then again, human beings are those who help me do this. Maybe, and Twain might disagree here, but maybe if I can help people they might help other people when they can.

It may not change the world, but it might change how someone lives in it, at least for Thanksgiving Day.

Take Care,

Mike writes regularly at his site:  The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.