Danny Mac's Blog, page 16

My Dog is a Karen – Halloweens Past

Hello everyone,

A cold furry shoulder froze me out for announcing no Karen story this week. As I wrote this blog, groans and moans wafted over me from a disgruntled dog. As mentioned before, the only thing that makes our Karen angrier than talking about her is not talking about her.

This past Tuesday Facebook popped up a memory of Halloween, eleven years past, where the Scary Scarecrow befriended young children and scared the boos out of the older ones. I gathered my getup from leftover bits and pieces from home and work.

After eating dinner at the pastor’s house, I fitted into my frightening costume. A six-year-old girl of a brother in the Church said hi to me and started up a conversation. The same little girl that had not said two words to me in the past and became very chatty with me moving forward.

A blue princess of borderline age turn out to be my first victim and so I said nothing as she went up for candy. I waved to her dad and he smiles, “I was wondering.”

“I don’t scare under eight years old.”

“She is eight.”

“Do I scare her?”

A mischievous dad smirk broke across his face, “Yeah.” So she started down the drive and I followed like a 1930s monster stomping with my hands raised high. Dad pointed at me and she turned to see me. She managed s slight tap on her heart with an “Oh my” face and then smiled.

A little later a young bear walked up the drive with his mother. Halfway, he let go of her hand and ran by himself. I waved to the mother and she jumped a little not expecting the scarecrow to move. “Have him wave at me when leaving.” The bear ran from the front porch telling his mom of all the goodies collected from seven families that Halloween. Mom finally got a word in and pointed to me. I waved at him. All the way to the next house, “Mom, he waved to me. Did you see him wave?”

Then a group of ten children appeared with four mothers. The mothers gathered in a circle at the top of the drive just in front of me. I stood to my full height and then up to my toes with my colossal hands hovering over the nearest mom's back. Then across from her pointed at me with a half-smile and so she turned toward me, “Scrreeeeech.” The kids all wanted to know why the mothers were laughing.

Another brother from Church came late with his exchange daughter. He pulled right close to me and she bounded out of the passenger seat. She then scooted between me and the car as I rocked towards her. She cleared the eave hanging over the garage. To this day, she denied being scared.

The final remembrance from the night of scaring became a fourteen-year-old boy braving the night with two friends. They loaded up on candy as the night reached its end. I heard the leader announce, “I am not afraid, I will touch it.” I waited until the shadow figure through my shaded vision appeared just a couple of feet from me before lurching at him. His body moved one way and his feet moved another. He ended up on the pavement for a half second, then vanished into the night. His two friends assured me they would give him his candy once they stopped laughing.

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God bless,
Danny Mac

My Dog is a Karen – The Sun Belongs to Ginger

Hello everyone,

Fall is a wonderful time of year. Night comes sooner in the evening and lingers a little longer each morning as the sunrise begins a little further south each morning. The summer heat gives way to enjoyably warm afternoons and cool nights conduct a good night’s sleep. October settles in to see the leaves on the hardwood trees paint the skyline with the brightest colors of the spectrum. It is a wonderful time to be alive.

Autumn also has its pitfalls which I blame the Spiced Pumpkin lovers, but that is a rant for another day. With the pleasures of cooler temperatures comes a downside, the unkindest of the cold weather. To describe it accurately, those days when the temperature fails to go over forty degrees (5C.), clouds dim the sun’s rays, and the drizzly rain falls all day long. The gloom haunts you from dusk to dawn and back to dusk again. The depressing rains cool your spirits as well as your body. After five straight days, you wake as a frozen character, stay chilled all day long, and climb back into bed searching for warmth again.

This iciness proves colder than mid-winter below zero temps that all you require is insulation and protection from the wind to stay warm. Fall’s dreary days seep through the heaviest clothes and water-proofing to sink deep into your bones. Even by a hot fire, the chilliness of the day dwells in the core of your body. There is no escaping the damp refrigerator-like temperature of a mid-October rainy day.

Ginger, growing in years, feels the effects of this freezing without frost more than others in the house since her coat remains the same year-round. We cover her with a blanket at night to keep her cozy and she snuggles into it with groaning and complaining of her cold bones. When the blanket finely warms her sore, she moans with contentment ready for a good night’s slumber.

After almost a week of bone-chilling days and nights, last Saturday night the skies clear dropping the temperature into the twenties. Then the sun brakes the morning sky giving hope of a kinder day. However, the sun rises well below the equinox, and the first day of low-angle sunshine does not heat the outside temperature adequately. The southerly sun beams across the kitchen floor by ten feet as midday approaches. Ginger plops herself at the furthest point away from the coldness of the patio door to soak in the friendly sunlight only moving with the sun along the floor.

This means anyone passing through must walk through her sunbathing to reach the other side of the kitchen. This slight by the person breaking the constant stream of warmth meets a very Karen-like, “Grrrrrnnnnn,” deep from the throat of Ginger. Upon leaving the kitchen by the same route and interrupting her warming bath a second time, “Orrrnnn nooorrrnnn,” translates to “Stay out of my sunlight.” Clearly, all sunshine beaming through the glass belongs to the dog of the house and her people servants prove to be inconsiderate bothers worthy of her scorn. After all, the sunshine belongs to Karen.


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God bless,
Danny Mac

My Dog is a Karen – No Bananas for You

Hello everyone,

Our usual mornings begin with my wife rising first. Ginger grumbles as she walks by her and then jumps up on the bed to harass me. “If I can’t sleep in, neither may you,” is her mantra while nudging me. Mom comes out of the bathroom and calls for her fur baby to follow.

I do my morning stretches and then dig my old bones out of bed. A quick trip to the bathroom and downstairs I go. By then the dog is fed, tea water rattles as it warms, and my bride of twenty-eight years has my medicine on the counter to remind me to take it. Once the water starts to whistle from the pot, one of us pours the water to start the morning caffeinated.

I check messages on the computer while letting my tea steep. Wife grumbles back upstairs to drink her tea while still hot. After ten minutes, I start breakfast by warming the sausage and egg pans while listening to RedWheel Reddit stories. The quiet of the morning changes when Noisy and Nosy start back down the steps.

Noisy, my beloved wife starts with a sing-song voice before she leaves the bedroom. It is my responsibility to hear everything she says and respond as if she has my full attention so pause the video. “Your tea is getting cold,” said every morning. Meanwhile Nosy, our four-legged child, starts sniffing all around the stove for any molecules of food that might have fallen. My wife pulls a bowl from the cupboard and prepares her cereal. This includes half of a banana to keep her potassium levels high. There is always a little piece of banana to spoil the dog.

A week ago, we ran out of bananas and my wife foregoes her kick of potassium. Ginger looking up at mom with the big sad eyes of a dog that hasn’t had a bite to eat in over a month breaks her heart. “Oh, I am sooo sorry, no banana today,” as she turns to go back upstairs.

Then Ginger looks at me as I prepare my eggs and sausage with the same melancholy stare of hunger. “You know I don’t share,” smartly come out of my mouth. Like any Karen you read about, the attitude burst out at me like a sudden summer storm. “Grrrrrnnnn,” comes from under her breath and she walks away. She proceeds to give me the cold shoulder the rest of the morning. An hour later, I try petting her, only to see our resident Karen turn away and grumble some more at me like it is my fault she didn’t get her well-deserved banana.

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God bless,
Danny Mac

My Dog is a Karen – A Dog’s History

Hello everyone,

I read a meme this week that made me chuckle and think. The top picture shows a single wolf abandoned from the pack and crossing a snow-crusted landscape. The caption reads, “I’m hungry and there is a campfire, maybe I can get some food there. What is the worst that can happen? As I scrolled down, “10,000 years later” separated the bottom picture showing two sad-looking dogs wearing knitted silly hats.

It reminded me of an adage from when I was young. Once dogs were proud independent hunters, then they discovered people had couches. Thus, the accompanying picture.

The history of dogs coincides with human history. For thousands of years, dogs worked alongside humans for the profit of both. A dog’s keen awareness became a crucial element for hunting food and protecting the home from intruders. As the generations passed, the dogs developed into specialized breeds for specific jobs.

A little more than a hundred years ago, a dog’s life began to change from cohabitor to member of the family. This transmutation of dogs made them think they are human, and it is not their fault since we call them our fur babies. The ability to sleep through anything replaced the alertness of days gone by. Now there are videos of dogs sleeping through every threatening sound but a snack wrapper being opened.

As dogs enter the family status in the home, they took on human qualities as well. This means dogs have become more affectionate, loving, and caring over the years. However, to every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, and some dogs acquired the entitlement of humans. This privileged attitude is in many people today. Some possess a small amount and others a great deal. The most entitled acquired the moniker, Karen.

Karen started as a rich white American woman, but as the stories flowed in from around the globe, it appears a Karen attitude affects any sex, race, religion, or social status. My story claims it now has crossed over to our family dog, who is a Karen.

Our neighbors put their house for sale. A nice couple put in an offer, and we met the other day. Ginger, our four-legged Karen became upset upon seeing new faces wandering around the yard of our neighbors. I met incoming neighbors but Ginger, who is a Karen wouldn’t accept them into the neighborhood because they didn’t clear it with her. While they tried to make friends with her, she kept barking, “noooorrrooo” at them. Her Karen way of saying they are not welcome. As for me, I am glad to have met them, and maybe they will join our Small Group.

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God bless,
Danny Mac

My Dog is a Karen – Bedtime Ally

Hello everyone,

More than twenty-eight years ago I began to bed down with my wife. A process quickly formed as newlyweds that she crawled into bed before me while I shuttered the abode. The responsibility was to turn off all the lights with the exception of security lighting, make the doors secure, and have cooler temperatures on the thermostat fell on me.

Over the years, dogs came into our lives. The first slept with us comfortably at twenty pounds. Our second 40-pound dog began sleeping with us but became upset because we took up too much space in our bed and moved to the floor in her padded dog bed in a clearing on mom’s side of the room.

Naturally, I take much too long performing the closing duties of the house and my lovely bride urges me to hurry for twenty-eight years. I wriggle into my third of the bed, the light goes off, and it is a fine time for forty winks. Except, her brain goes off at the very moment darkness descends upon the room and she tells me everything that pops into it. Eventually, there is a pause in her pronouncements to which I fall asleep. She, like many women of TikTok, complains about her husband falling to sleep so suddenly.

This past week precedes like any other goodnight with her meandering comments about life. I know not to interrupt her and just listen for the break in conversation. This evening's closing ceremony begins like any other until I receive a collaborator for support. About halfway through her nightly announcements, we hear, “Grrooonn, grrrummm,” coming from the floor.

Wife defensively, “I will not shut up and will talk as long as I want to.”

From the floor, “Ooorrrrnn, errrnnnn,” as Ginger moves her bed from along mom’s side to the floor near dad’s side.

Me chuckling to myself, “Finely I agree with a Karen!”

“Your dog is being a Karen again,” grumbles from the far side of the bed.

“Oh, she is my dog now?”

“Yes, you are thinking what she said and probably put her up to it.”

“No Ginger is a Karen and only does what she wants to do.”

Then, “Grrooonn, grrrummm,” telling us both to be quiet and stop interfering with her beauty sleep.

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God bless,
Danny Mac

My Dog is a Karen - Grumpy Old Dog

Hello everyone,

Sorry for the brevity of this week’s blog, I am fighting a head cold and as I approach sixty-four years old; it becomes more draining with each year.

It was nine years ago we picked Ginger from the shelter not knowing her breed. She appeared somewhat hyper, but it was the prison-like environment we supposed. We took her and our daughter to obedience classes for the betterment of both. The daughter excelled and learned a lot. Ginger being the super-hyper type didn’t fare as well.

Ginger slept with me and mom in our room. The first movement in the morning brought the bouncing puppy onto the bed to play hop on pop. Mom rose first and the crazy dog rolled, jumped, and then pounced on me until I rubbed her head as she demanded. The sink water ran, and Ginger gathered by the door for breakfast. After they left the room, I could rise without being scratched and scraped by over-anxious claws.

The years pass and Ginger’s chin transforms from a cayenne orange to a salty white. Her bouncing personality transforms from a hyper-spry dog to a Karen-like demeanor. Our morning routine changes from a pouncing puppy to a grumbling old dog complaining we are disturbing her sleep. Instead of hearing whimpers of excitement to start the day, a low toned, “Gooorrrrnnnnn,” and “Grrrruuummm,” fills the room because we chose to move in the morning. As the autumn morning sun peers into our windows after we rise in the morning, the darkness echoes the discomfort as we start the day. Don’t disturb a Karen from her sleep, even if the Karen is your family dog.

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God bless,
Danny Mac

My Dog is a Karen - Who is the Boss

Hello everyone,

In 1993, a girl managed to do what no other girl could and that was to steal my heart closely guarded heart. Between the winter and spring quarters of college, we married in a small chapel with friends and family in attendance. We settled into a small apartment after a brief honeymoon. First day living in our first home, I called her boss. “I am not the boss, we are in this together,” protested out of her mouth.

When we finished the spring quarter with a few more times her objecting to being called boss, my mother invited us over for lunch. Mom prepared sandwiches as we talked about our new life together. My father’s footsteps could be heard echoing throughout the house as he came down from his office. “What’s for lunch, boss?” nonchalantly exits his lips.

My wife stared at me knowing why I called her boss. At that moment she accepted her position of boss in the house knowing it came from a long line of men calling their wives boss.

Fast forward nearly twenty-nine years later, Ginger, our dog, likes looking out the patio window to express her Karen indignation at the neighbor’s dogs, two houses down. Before spotting the desire of her ire, I yelled at her, “What is the rule of looking out the door?” Answering my own question, “Don’t”

“Oorrrnnn-rooo-noooo” or translated to English, “I was doing no such thing and you can’t prove I was.”

“You certainly were searching for a reason to bark your head off.”

“Narnnn, rrrrooooonnn,” which means “I was just looking.”

“Take your furry butt upstairs before you get into trouble.”

She runs off in a huff to see the boss of the house. My wife comes down a couple of minutes later and asks, “Why did you yell at her?”

“First I didn’t yell but spoke firmly. Second, she took a peek out the window to bark at the neighbor dogs.”

“Oorrrnnn-rooo-noooo” came two steps behind mom with a Karen-like smile on her face.

Addressing my four-legged child, “So, you went and complained to the boss telling her lies hoping to get me in trouble?”

Even our dog knows who the boss in our house is.


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God bless,
Danny Mac

Karen Needs a Bath

Hello everyone,

My daughter dug up a six by twelve foot section of the yard and made a raised garden five years ago. We brought a truckload of dirt to fill the raised bed. We have enjoyed the fruits of her labors over the past few years. This past spring, she wanted more and cleared another equal section to the previous. Then tilled in compost and fill dirt to bring the garden to level with the rest of the yard. She planted tomatoes, jalapenos, and several other vegetables in the upper garden. In the lower one, she wanted some squash and melons.

The garden produced a healthy number of tomatoes and peppers, but their appearance lacked desirability and therefore not really sellable. What do you do when your garden gives you ugly tomatoes, we made salsa. The first batch came out three weeks ago with a little bite to it. For the second batch, we kicked it up with some hotter peppers and even better taste. The third batch made this past Wednesday scored a heat level between the first and the second.

However, this time my wife used a strainer instead of a bowl to hold the peeled tomatoes allowing the clear liquid juice to leak all over the counter. As she deseeded the red orbs, they added to the mess and eventually overflowed the counter.

As the juice dripped from the counter, our four-legged Karen licked up the juices falling from two sides of the counter. What Ginger didn’t count on was the juice to continue to drip as she lapped up the scrumptious people food. By the time we finished dicing the five pounds, her head, ears, and snout shined with sweet clear juice from the butchered tomatoes.

As the diced tomatoes, jalapenos, onion, cilantro, garlic, and other flavors stewed in the pot, Ginger’s head became crusted by the now-drying juices caking her face. Mom laughed at her appearance as I smiled for our Karen really didn’t care.

The salsa simmered for a half hour before ready for canning. The jars settled into the boiling water for five minutes and then on the counter for filling. The boss filled them, and I corrected the level with a teaspoon. She left me to cap, close, and the canned food aligned in the boiling water for twenty minutes.

“Time for a bath,” caused our resident Karen to act surprised and she sought out a hiding spot. Mom being the ultimate manager of the house, pulled out the Kryptonite for Ginger’s Karen antics. With one genuine dog cookie, our resident Karen becomes a fun-loving dog who loves bath time.

Ginger entered the kitchen soaking wet before the salsa crossed over to the counter to cool. She pranced like a queen until she remembered the licking was not complete and started on the legs of the counter. “I already wiped them down!” smarmily out of my mouth. The Karen returned with a disgruntled stare.

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God bless,
Danny Mac

Karen Protects Her Hair

Hello everyone,

I recently heard the definition of home is where dog hair sticks to everything, but the dog. This describes our home perfectly.

We spend Tuesday preparing for the Small Group to come over to our house. This brings from four to eight people on any given Tuesday. I like making a crockpot recipe for its simplicity and ease of serving. After the family messes the kitchen with lunch, I complete a deep clean to make it presentable for guests. This includes a comprehensive sweep of the floors towards five o’clock.

I pull out chairs and move furniture the broom doesn’t fit under. I always find little pieces of paper, dust, debris, and about half a dog of strawberry blond hair. This hair is the fine undercoat hair that keeps the dog insulted against excessive cold or heat. It also makes a great PIA as it sticks to the bristles of the broom causing me to stop several times and clean the broom. My wife vacuums the carpet in the living room, the stairs, and the lower family room. She collects the other half of the dog in the see-through container.

Did you know my dog is a Karen? No, she is not a Karen for getting hair all over the house. She is a Karen because she doesn’t like us cleaning it up. She chases the vacuum all over the house growling and barking at it. When mom pulls the nozzle out of the vacuum to clean the steps, she tries biting it because we are not allowed to do this in her Karen mind.

I have it somewhat easier because she isn’t vocal about me sweeping her hair. However, I do get the disappointing stares, the disgruntled smirks, and disapproving nods as the pile gains in stature as I progress across the floor. Then comes the time to sweep the mountain of hair into the dustpan and it is akin to telling her she is adopted, she stinks and needs a bath, and don’t look out the patio doors to bark at the neighbor’s dogs, all combined into one sad face.

I often wonder, if we gathered all this hair into a pile and place it on a spinning wheel, could we make a thread for making clothes? Perhaps we could sew it into a sweater, and sell it on Etsy. For sale, is one genuine Ginger shirt made from the finest Karen hair. You know, it might just work. But then again, Karen would demand at least half the profits.


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God bless,
Danny Mac

My Dog is a Karen!

Hello everyone,

Karen in the Kitchen

My first profession was as a line cook at several restaurants. My best training came under the tutelage of an NYC-trained chef. She was very instrumental in teaching cream sauces, sautéing, and proper seasoning. I learned great skills working with and for Marsha.

Even though I enjoyed my time with her, got yelled at when required, praised when warranted, worked with two other excellent cooks, and never had to wonder what to make. That problem was corrected by the servers in the dining room and they brought me a ticket filling everyone’s wants.

I cook for my family today, the only direction I receive is “I don’t care, I don’t know,” and my favorite, “Food!” I am lucky if they give me a meat to start the menu, let alone the sides. So, I fix what I want to eat unless I hear a suggestion. Most time I go out of my way to make it happen. My wife’s favorite is fettuccine alfredo, but that is very rich and we only have it one or two times per year.

The daily problem I have in my older cooking life is telling our resident Karen I do not need her assistance. For she is the only one in the house that offers to help. Go figure, the only one without opposable thumbs proposes to contribute as she poses as a premier taste-tester of all food. In her Karen-like mind, she sees herself as the savior of the family protecting us from bad food.

She could supervise from the edge of the kitchen waiting for something to drop, but being a Karen of a dog, she forces her furry red head directly in front of me. As I move from stove to refrigerator to countertop, she will forge her ten-inch tongue onto my cutting board for a quick taste. Her puppy trainer told us to step on her and she will learn to stay out of the way. This only works for dogs that are not a Karen. And so, my kitchen dialog includes, “Get out of the kitchen,” repeatedly until I yell at her to get her furry butt out of the kitchen.

Then she pouts the rest of the cooking time while lying in the living room, sometimes in the forbidden red chairs from last week. The echoes of complaints groan throughout the house every five minutes. Then she hears the plate coming out of the cupboard and prances into the kitchen knowing manager mom will soon follow to protect her from me shouting at her.

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God bless,
Danny Mac