Danny Mac's Blog, page 2
August 1, 2025
Girl Dad
Hello to all,
A boy mom is a woman fortunate enough to raise only boys. There are many videos of these mothers celebrating the joys of raising boys. This includes, but is not limited to, jokes about bodily functions, constantly fighting, and rarely bathing. When pushed to their limits, the boy hugs his mom and tells her how wonderful she is, and all the anger melts away.
Recently, while grocery shopping, I spotted a man wearing a T-shirt that read, “Pray for me, I’m a girl dad.” Standing near him were a seven-year-old and a four-year-old girl, accompanied by a third girl in a stroller. I felt compelled to hug this man in solidarity for raising three girls with all their heartache and joys.
I explained that I, too, was a girl dad. There are my daughter, wife, and mother-in-law living in our house. Then I remembered that even the dog is female. He smiled and mentioned his dog was also female. I hugged him again.
I told him about the time I was watching a baseball game when, in the middle of the second inning, the game went blank. The next thing I remember is feeling a brush gently rubbing my fingernails. My right eye opened first to see my daughter, maybe five at the time, painting my nails her favorite color. Lucky for me, she only had pretend nail polish. He lived through a very similar experience.
We had a friend during her early life who had three boys about the same age. She complained one day about their rambunctious behavior. I offered to trade one daughter for three boys for a day, maybe a weekend. He laughed at the notion, but still the thought intrigued him. His wife laughed at the thought.
I didn’t think of it at the time, but I was a member of D.A.D.D., Dads Against Daughters Dating. This group had rules for boys dating our daughters, to which my teenage daughter rolled her eyes at. I hope this stranger can find a support group to help him cope with the realities of raising girls into strong, independent women.
Perhaps, us girl dads should make some videos of the joys and frustrations of raising girls.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
A boy mom is a woman fortunate enough to raise only boys. There are many videos of these mothers celebrating the joys of raising boys. This includes, but is not limited to, jokes about bodily functions, constantly fighting, and rarely bathing. When pushed to their limits, the boy hugs his mom and tells her how wonderful she is, and all the anger melts away.
Recently, while grocery shopping, I spotted a man wearing a T-shirt that read, “Pray for me, I’m a girl dad.” Standing near him were a seven-year-old and a four-year-old girl, accompanied by a third girl in a stroller. I felt compelled to hug this man in solidarity for raising three girls with all their heartache and joys.
I explained that I, too, was a girl dad. There are my daughter, wife, and mother-in-law living in our house. Then I remembered that even the dog is female. He smiled and mentioned his dog was also female. I hugged him again.
I told him about the time I was watching a baseball game when, in the middle of the second inning, the game went blank. The next thing I remember is feeling a brush gently rubbing my fingernails. My right eye opened first to see my daughter, maybe five at the time, painting my nails her favorite color. Lucky for me, she only had pretend nail polish. He lived through a very similar experience.
We had a friend during her early life who had three boys about the same age. She complained one day about their rambunctious behavior. I offered to trade one daughter for three boys for a day, maybe a weekend. He laughed at the notion, but still the thought intrigued him. His wife laughed at the thought.
I didn’t think of it at the time, but I was a member of D.A.D.D., Dads Against Daughters Dating. This group had rules for boys dating our daughters, to which my teenage daughter rolled her eyes at. I hope this stranger can find a support group to help him cope with the realities of raising girls into strong, independent women.
Perhaps, us girl dads should make some videos of the joys and frustrations of raising girls.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
July 25, 2025
Enough Breast
Hello to all,
It was a typical Friday night in a pizza restaurant, a little over thirty-two years ago. As the evening drew to a close, we received an order for two chicken dinners. Tammy worked in the back room and at the chicken fryer, but being new, I kept half an eye on her work. She dropped two legs, two thighs, two wings, and it looked like one breast. “I only saw one breast go into the basket. Verify you count!” barked the hurried manager.
I helped customers and prepared pizzas until the cleanup began. Ron came in to pick up Tammy, and I called out, “Tammy, your father is here.”
A few moments later, she emerged from the back kitchen with her meal for the night and announced proudly, “I told you I had enough breasts.”
The thirty-four-year-old manager stared at the old man waiting for his daughter. His eyes grew large at his daughter’s comment. I came up with a classy retort I could muster, “I, um, I.” What could I say when a girl I barely knew announced she had enough breasts in front of her father?
She sat down with her dad and clarified, “I thought I had enough chicken in the basket before dropping it, but I dropped an extra one to be sure.”
She looked at her dad, and then at me. Only then did she realize what she said and the possible ramifications of it. We have been married for thirty-one years, and she still reminds me regularly, “I have enough breast!”
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
It was a typical Friday night in a pizza restaurant, a little over thirty-two years ago. As the evening drew to a close, we received an order for two chicken dinners. Tammy worked in the back room and at the chicken fryer, but being new, I kept half an eye on her work. She dropped two legs, two thighs, two wings, and it looked like one breast. “I only saw one breast go into the basket. Verify you count!” barked the hurried manager.
I helped customers and prepared pizzas until the cleanup began. Ron came in to pick up Tammy, and I called out, “Tammy, your father is here.”
A few moments later, she emerged from the back kitchen with her meal for the night and announced proudly, “I told you I had enough breasts.”
The thirty-four-year-old manager stared at the old man waiting for his daughter. His eyes grew large at his daughter’s comment. I came up with a classy retort I could muster, “I, um, I.” What could I say when a girl I barely knew announced she had enough breasts in front of her father?
She sat down with her dad and clarified, “I thought I had enough chicken in the basket before dropping it, but I dropped an extra one to be sure.”
She looked at her dad, and then at me. Only then did she realize what she said and the possible ramifications of it. We have been married for thirty-one years, and she still reminds me regularly, “I have enough breast!”
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
July 18, 2025
A New Stove
Hello to all,
Have you ever been floating through life, only to have a monkey wrench thrown into your life?
We moved into our new home twenty-one years ago. We bought new appliances for our new kitchen. Tammy picked out everything but the stove. I had visions of a stove performing at a professional level, despite our modest budget. It took five stores and many hours of research to find a new stove of my dreams.
After twenty years of use, the numbers on the dial have worn away, but it didn’t matter because my hand would set the proper temperature without looking. I worked that old stove like a Pinball Wizard. My impeccable timing rarely resulted in a meal being burned or undercooked. Bake goods match the set timer to perfection. All was right in the kitchen.
A month ago, our old faithful oven had a quirk. It failed to cycle while baking bread for the local Farmer’s Market. We let it cool, and it started working again. However, the notion that it was time to place the old stove out to pasture became evident.
Our new stove arrived, and I watched the old stove with a heavy heart, thinking of all the good meals made in and on it. Then, I became excited to try the new stove. The burners all seem to cook hotter than the old, and it has messed up my cooking time. I haven’t burnt anything, but a meal came out darker than I wanted. Then I overcompensated and failed to create Maillard browning, leaving me with a rather pale dish.
Our new stove is neither better nor worse than the old one. There is a learning curve that we must adapt to. Here is to another twenty years of happy meals bringing my family and friends together. We must learn and adapt to overcome life’s problems.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
Have you ever been floating through life, only to have a monkey wrench thrown into your life?
We moved into our new home twenty-one years ago. We bought new appliances for our new kitchen. Tammy picked out everything but the stove. I had visions of a stove performing at a professional level, despite our modest budget. It took five stores and many hours of research to find a new stove of my dreams.
After twenty years of use, the numbers on the dial have worn away, but it didn’t matter because my hand would set the proper temperature without looking. I worked that old stove like a Pinball Wizard. My impeccable timing rarely resulted in a meal being burned or undercooked. Bake goods match the set timer to perfection. All was right in the kitchen.
A month ago, our old faithful oven had a quirk. It failed to cycle while baking bread for the local Farmer’s Market. We let it cool, and it started working again. However, the notion that it was time to place the old stove out to pasture became evident.
Our new stove arrived, and I watched the old stove with a heavy heart, thinking of all the good meals made in and on it. Then, I became excited to try the new stove. The burners all seem to cook hotter than the old, and it has messed up my cooking time. I haven’t burnt anything, but a meal came out darker than I wanted. Then I overcompensated and failed to create Maillard browning, leaving me with a rather pale dish.
Our new stove is neither better nor worse than the old one. There is a learning curve that we must adapt to. Here is to another twenty years of happy meals bringing my family and friends together. We must learn and adapt to overcome life’s problems.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
July 11, 2025
A Cooking Tip
Hello to all,
The muse that inspires my unique perspective on the world, for your reading pleasure, failed me this week. Therefore, I am relying on my first love, the joy of cooking. I have never been a big consumer of fried foods, and in recent years, I have started modifying recipes to limit the use of frying methods in my dishes.
I made Chicken Cordon Bleu this week for dinner and decided to share it as my first cooking tip for your dining pleasure. Chicken Cordon Bleu is traditionally made by rolling shaved ham and cheese in a flattened chicken breast, breaded, and then deep-fried or pan-fried. My new and improved version makes it easier to manufacture and healthier.
I start with four six-ounce chicken breasts, season them with salt and pepper. You can add a small amount of garlic powder, but use it sparingly. I brown the outer surface to caramelize for flavor. I am careful not to cook all the way through. I leave the center raw because it will finish cooking in the oven. Set aside the golden-brown breasts on a cooking sheet and layer one ounce of shaved ham followed by one ounce of shaved Swiss cheese.
I preheat my oven to 350°F (177 °C, for my Canadian friends) and start preparing the sides for the meal. Twenty minutes before plating the meal, I pop the tray of Chicken Cordon Bleu into the oven. I want an internal temperature of 170ºF before serving. There is an option to serve with a simple béchamel sauce or light chicken gravy, if preferred.
If I have good feedback on the cooking tip, I will provide additional recipes in the future.
Healthy eating, my friends,
Danny Mac
The muse that inspires my unique perspective on the world, for your reading pleasure, failed me this week. Therefore, I am relying on my first love, the joy of cooking. I have never been a big consumer of fried foods, and in recent years, I have started modifying recipes to limit the use of frying methods in my dishes.
I made Chicken Cordon Bleu this week for dinner and decided to share it as my first cooking tip for your dining pleasure. Chicken Cordon Bleu is traditionally made by rolling shaved ham and cheese in a flattened chicken breast, breaded, and then deep-fried or pan-fried. My new and improved version makes it easier to manufacture and healthier.
I start with four six-ounce chicken breasts, season them with salt and pepper. You can add a small amount of garlic powder, but use it sparingly. I brown the outer surface to caramelize for flavor. I am careful not to cook all the way through. I leave the center raw because it will finish cooking in the oven. Set aside the golden-brown breasts on a cooking sheet and layer one ounce of shaved ham followed by one ounce of shaved Swiss cheese.
I preheat my oven to 350°F (177 °C, for my Canadian friends) and start preparing the sides for the meal. Twenty minutes before plating the meal, I pop the tray of Chicken Cordon Bleu into the oven. I want an internal temperature of 170ºF before serving. There is an option to serve with a simple béchamel sauce or light chicken gravy, if preferred.
If I have good feedback on the cooking tip, I will provide additional recipes in the future.
Healthy eating, my friends,
Danny Mac
July 4, 2025
Ginger Gripes
Hello to all,
Thirteen years ago, our dog Ginger was born from peasant blood. In the six months from her birth to the day we gathered her from the shelter, she pulled Excalibur from the stone and became a bona fide queen, at least in her own mind. Although I call it gripes, Queen Ginger commands me to tell her story in her words:
Mom claimed this morning that I let a stinker out last night. I groaned over this mistaken statement that cannot go unchallenged. I am a lady of royal blood, and do not let that happen. She probably did it herself and blamed me for the convenience. More likely, is the stinky old gray face Dad snuck in while I slept and let it rip. Then, he convinced Mom to blame me.
Mom tried to starve the queen of the house out of jealousy of my royal position. Instead of feeding me herself, she sent my sister to feed me, and it was four o’clock sharp. When I complained about the lateness, Dad pointed out that my dinner time is at four. My long-standing decree has been, “If you are not fifteen minutes early on feeding me, you are thirty minutes late.”
Dad made burgers for everyone last night. I watched carefully as he pulled them from the fire. One for mom, one for sister, one for grandma, and one with extra cheese for him. None for the queen of the house. He is so cheap, he wouldn’t make a fifth burger for the most essential empress and ruler of all she sees. Plus, he is still breaking my cookies in half, despite millions of my adoring fans having told him to stop.
This concludes this quarter’s gripes from our dog, who suffered abuse from her unworthy subjects. She suffers immensely from the presence of family members refusing to accept their roles as servants and peasants under her royal authority.
Happy Independence Day,
Danny Mac
Thirteen years ago, our dog Ginger was born from peasant blood. In the six months from her birth to the day we gathered her from the shelter, she pulled Excalibur from the stone and became a bona fide queen, at least in her own mind. Although I call it gripes, Queen Ginger commands me to tell her story in her words:
Mom claimed this morning that I let a stinker out last night. I groaned over this mistaken statement that cannot go unchallenged. I am a lady of royal blood, and do not let that happen. She probably did it herself and blamed me for the convenience. More likely, is the stinky old gray face Dad snuck in while I slept and let it rip. Then, he convinced Mom to blame me.
Mom tried to starve the queen of the house out of jealousy of my royal position. Instead of feeding me herself, she sent my sister to feed me, and it was four o’clock sharp. When I complained about the lateness, Dad pointed out that my dinner time is at four. My long-standing decree has been, “If you are not fifteen minutes early on feeding me, you are thirty minutes late.”
Dad made burgers for everyone last night. I watched carefully as he pulled them from the fire. One for mom, one for sister, one for grandma, and one with extra cheese for him. None for the queen of the house. He is so cheap, he wouldn’t make a fifth burger for the most essential empress and ruler of all she sees. Plus, he is still breaking my cookies in half, despite millions of my adoring fans having told him to stop.
This concludes this quarter’s gripes from our dog, who suffered abuse from her unworthy subjects. She suffers immensely from the presence of family members refusing to accept their roles as servants and peasants under her royal authority.
Happy Independence Day,
Danny Mac
June 27, 2025
Not-So-Good Advice
Hello to all,
I was thinking about writing an advice book referencing my bachelor years, so that young men today may learn my cheat codes for living single. I got married at thirty-five and learned many techniques to keep a household looking clean with minimal effort.
A female coworker asked me once if I separated my clothes. I explained that there are three baskets in my bedroom. One for clean clothes, one for clothes that need washing, and one for gently worn that can be worn again. She walked away, slowly shaking her head in crushing disappointment, not-so-good advice.
A girl came to my pad and saw my clean kitchen. She marveled at how tidy it looked and complimented me on it. I hoped that she didn’t look under the sink to see a half stack of rinsed plates and its accompanying flatware. When the stack became complete, I would wash the entire stack. Despite her admiration for my housekeeping, we broke up shortly afterwards, not-so-good advice.
I drank longneck beers and stored the bottle caps in the drawer with the church key. On garbage day, they were collected and thrown into the trash. After marrying my wife, they magically disappeared from the drawer until my bride yelled at me to stop it. To this day, my hand still wants to drop the cap into the drawer while putting the opener back, not-so-good advice.
On second thought, maybe it's not-so-good advice after all, because the more civilized sex considers my bachelor efforts as lacking or disgusting. If I wrote this book, a hundred years later, young married women would still be spitting on my grave for all the bad habits their man brought into the marriage. The blame would be placed directly on my shoulders even if their husband hadn’t read my book. The Bible instructs us older men to teach the younger men properly and not fill their heads with not-so-good advice.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
I was thinking about writing an advice book referencing my bachelor years, so that young men today may learn my cheat codes for living single. I got married at thirty-five and learned many techniques to keep a household looking clean with minimal effort.
A female coworker asked me once if I separated my clothes. I explained that there are three baskets in my bedroom. One for clean clothes, one for clothes that need washing, and one for gently worn that can be worn again. She walked away, slowly shaking her head in crushing disappointment, not-so-good advice.
A girl came to my pad and saw my clean kitchen. She marveled at how tidy it looked and complimented me on it. I hoped that she didn’t look under the sink to see a half stack of rinsed plates and its accompanying flatware. When the stack became complete, I would wash the entire stack. Despite her admiration for my housekeeping, we broke up shortly afterwards, not-so-good advice.
I drank longneck beers and stored the bottle caps in the drawer with the church key. On garbage day, they were collected and thrown into the trash. After marrying my wife, they magically disappeared from the drawer until my bride yelled at me to stop it. To this day, my hand still wants to drop the cap into the drawer while putting the opener back, not-so-good advice.
On second thought, maybe it's not-so-good advice after all, because the more civilized sex considers my bachelor efforts as lacking or disgusting. If I wrote this book, a hundred years later, young married women would still be spitting on my grave for all the bad habits their man brought into the marriage. The blame would be placed directly on my shoulders even if their husband hadn’t read my book. The Bible instructs us older men to teach the younger men properly and not fill their heads with not-so-good advice.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
June 20, 2025
Petty Revenge
Hello to all,
Ginger and I have an ongoing feud, specializing in petty revenge. I don’t know who started it, but it began early in our life together. Since I am the one able to communicate with you, I’m blaming her for starting the battle of trifling insults, minor offences, and trivial retaliations.
The first act of being petty begins with her jumping into our bed and rolling on me for attention. Then, I flop her ears on top of her head before heading down for breakfast. While she is eating her breakfast, I open the patio door, enticing her to go out on the deck, but there is still food to eat, and she turns back to her dish. When she finishes her morning meal, but the door is shut, she can only gaze out the door.
A second round of being petty happens as I search and peck for letters on the keyboard, she lets loose with a sharp yelp, jumping me from concentration. As she glares intently out the front windows, I come to see the commotion. I look one way and then the other, and ask, “Why for you bark?”
She gives me a look that replies, “A huge elephant crossed the road.”
“I don’t see any elephants,” shaking my head.
Her expression changes to, “See, what a good job I did scaring it away.”
A half hour passes, and I spot her sleeping on the couch. I sneak over to the patio door and pull it open, making as much noise as possible. She hustles her old bones toward the door only for it to close before she can race out to the deck. My petty reply, “Next time, move your furry butt faster.”
The late morning pettiness finds me heading to the family room to watch television. Ginger waits at the top of the steps. “Do you want out?” I offer before sitting down. Ginger slinks away. My butt settles into my recliner and the theme song to my show plays. Ginger runs down to me like there is an urgent matter for her to go out. I swear I can see her shoulders shaking from the laughter as she runs into the yard.
Tammy, Ginger’s human mom and my wife of 31 years, laughs at our petty antics as we seek revenge upon each other.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
Ginger and I have an ongoing feud, specializing in petty revenge. I don’t know who started it, but it began early in our life together. Since I am the one able to communicate with you, I’m blaming her for starting the battle of trifling insults, minor offences, and trivial retaliations.
The first act of being petty begins with her jumping into our bed and rolling on me for attention. Then, I flop her ears on top of her head before heading down for breakfast. While she is eating her breakfast, I open the patio door, enticing her to go out on the deck, but there is still food to eat, and she turns back to her dish. When she finishes her morning meal, but the door is shut, she can only gaze out the door.
A second round of being petty happens as I search and peck for letters on the keyboard, she lets loose with a sharp yelp, jumping me from concentration. As she glares intently out the front windows, I come to see the commotion. I look one way and then the other, and ask, “Why for you bark?”
She gives me a look that replies, “A huge elephant crossed the road.”
“I don’t see any elephants,” shaking my head.
Her expression changes to, “See, what a good job I did scaring it away.”
A half hour passes, and I spot her sleeping on the couch. I sneak over to the patio door and pull it open, making as much noise as possible. She hustles her old bones toward the door only for it to close before she can race out to the deck. My petty reply, “Next time, move your furry butt faster.”
The late morning pettiness finds me heading to the family room to watch television. Ginger waits at the top of the steps. “Do you want out?” I offer before sitting down. Ginger slinks away. My butt settles into my recliner and the theme song to my show plays. Ginger runs down to me like there is an urgent matter for her to go out. I swear I can see her shoulders shaking from the laughter as she runs into the yard.
Tammy, Ginger’s human mom and my wife of 31 years, laughs at our petty antics as we seek revenge upon each other.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
June 13, 2025
Getting Old
Hello to all,
Ten years ago, my friend’s daughter posted, “I went to Put-In-Bay for a three-hour boat tour.”
I commented, “I hope a storm didn’t shipwreck you on a deserted island.”
“No snarky comments,” came back at once.
“I am getting old,” crossed my mind. I made a wonderful pun referencing a show from my youth. Gilligan’s Island was a mainstay of comedy in the sixties, with reruns rolling throughout the seventies. Everyone over fifty knows the theme song and can recite most of it to this day, sixty years after its initial casting. I never felt so old as the moment I realized that this new adult had no association with my old recollection.
I watched a reel this week of a Gen X man going through the drive-through, and when the order taker asked for a name, he replied, “My name is Indigo Montoya,” in the perfect Spanish accent.
“How do you spell it?” came back in a perfect, hurried tone. He talked about getting old in that very moment. The young teller had no notion of The Princess Bride.
Getting old means our local oldies station switched from playing 60s and 70s music to playing 70s and 80s music. It means having to explain the phrase “drinking Kool-Aid” to a generation that should have read about it in history books.
The current generation sees no humor in “I saw the Guess Who last night.”
“Who?”
“No, the Guess Who.”
I apologize if this post makes you feel like you're getting old. It beats the alternative. The Boomers and Gen Xers can have our old jokes, references, and memories from our youth. It is a secret we can keep because the new adults don’t want to know it.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
Ten years ago, my friend’s daughter posted, “I went to Put-In-Bay for a three-hour boat tour.”
I commented, “I hope a storm didn’t shipwreck you on a deserted island.”
“No snarky comments,” came back at once.
“I am getting old,” crossed my mind. I made a wonderful pun referencing a show from my youth. Gilligan’s Island was a mainstay of comedy in the sixties, with reruns rolling throughout the seventies. Everyone over fifty knows the theme song and can recite most of it to this day, sixty years after its initial casting. I never felt so old as the moment I realized that this new adult had no association with my old recollection.
I watched a reel this week of a Gen X man going through the drive-through, and when the order taker asked for a name, he replied, “My name is Indigo Montoya,” in the perfect Spanish accent.
“How do you spell it?” came back in a perfect, hurried tone. He talked about getting old in that very moment. The young teller had no notion of The Princess Bride.
Getting old means our local oldies station switched from playing 60s and 70s music to playing 70s and 80s music. It means having to explain the phrase “drinking Kool-Aid” to a generation that should have read about it in history books.
The current generation sees no humor in “I saw the Guess Who last night.”
“Who?”
“No, the Guess Who.”
I apologize if this post makes you feel like you're getting old. It beats the alternative. The Boomers and Gen Xers can have our old jokes, references, and memories from our youth. It is a secret we can keep because the new adults don’t want to know it.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
June 6, 2025
What? Nothing!
Hello to all,
Imagine you are the self-proclaimed protector of the house. There are endless hours of quiet silence as you patrol the neighborhood with your enhanced hearing. It is time for your break, so you lie down on your bed with the silky-smooth blanket for extra comfort for a quick two-hour nap. The danger, only you can detect, is everywhere. It is obligatory that one ear stays on duty for any impending doom that may befall your happy home.
Mom types away on her latest project of making labels for strawberry jam to sell at the farmer’s market. A click sounds on a distant breeze too faint for the foolish human ears. The disturbance in the force makes you ask, “What?” and then “Nothing!” You “gruff” to put the unsuspecting humans on notice.
Then, another far-off “tick” alarms both your ears to the top of your head and opens your eyes to the danger. You ask again, “What?” and silence fills your mind. With a grumble of discontent, “Nothing!” You nod off to finish your well-deserved break from defending the home from all the menaces.
Just as the peaceful rest falls upon your consciousness, “Ping” softly wafts through the walls, alerting you to the potential peril. “What?” wakes you from your respite. Grumbling like the old dog she is, you grumble your way down the steps, onto the couch, and peer out the window. Your keen eye scours every blade of grass in five properties looking for the source of the noise upsetting your breather. With a singular low moan, “Nothing!” before returning to your nap.
This is the life of our Lord Protector of our Realm, as she has appointed herself. It is a “Ruff” life, but it is the one she claimed upon entering our family thirteen years ago. The endless barking, growling, and howling at unseen foes keeps her young at heart and body. She is still within two pounds of her youthful weight, which is more impressive than her human parents.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
Imagine you are the self-proclaimed protector of the house. There are endless hours of quiet silence as you patrol the neighborhood with your enhanced hearing. It is time for your break, so you lie down on your bed with the silky-smooth blanket for extra comfort for a quick two-hour nap. The danger, only you can detect, is everywhere. It is obligatory that one ear stays on duty for any impending doom that may befall your happy home.
Mom types away on her latest project of making labels for strawberry jam to sell at the farmer’s market. A click sounds on a distant breeze too faint for the foolish human ears. The disturbance in the force makes you ask, “What?” and then “Nothing!” You “gruff” to put the unsuspecting humans on notice.
Then, another far-off “tick” alarms both your ears to the top of your head and opens your eyes to the danger. You ask again, “What?” and silence fills your mind. With a grumble of discontent, “Nothing!” You nod off to finish your well-deserved break from defending the home from all the menaces.
Just as the peaceful rest falls upon your consciousness, “Ping” softly wafts through the walls, alerting you to the potential peril. “What?” wakes you from your respite. Grumbling like the old dog she is, you grumble your way down the steps, onto the couch, and peer out the window. Your keen eye scours every blade of grass in five properties looking for the source of the noise upsetting your breather. With a singular low moan, “Nothing!” before returning to your nap.
This is the life of our Lord Protector of our Realm, as she has appointed herself. It is a “Ruff” life, but it is the one she claimed upon entering our family thirteen years ago. The endless barking, growling, and howling at unseen foes keeps her young at heart and body. She is still within two pounds of her youthful weight, which is more impressive than her human parents.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
May 30, 2025
Old Friends
Hello to all,
After what seemed like a month of constant rain, we had a rain-free weekend in northern Ohio. The temperature remained cool, but the sun shone, making it possible to do yard work. Ginger, our self-anointed queen and protector, felt the need to watch over everyone. This meant hours of ensuring the garden was arranged correctly and guarding Mom and Sister from the ever-present dangers of rabbits, chipmunks, and Bentley, the most evil dog next door.
Memorial Day brought old friends to the house. These families met in our home for a decade as part of our small group. Ginger held a special affinity for them, as they were her favorite acquaintances before they moved away. Their car pulled into our drive, which brought the wrath of the queen upon them. Then they stepped out of the vehicle, and the recognition settled into her mind. Their faces brought memories of old friends and good times. Her disapproving bark shifted to anticipation howls of joy and happiness.
We soon settled into dinner of smoked pork butt and turkey breast with all the fixings. Ginger sniffed her way around the table, looking for head rubs like she had never gotten one before. When eye contact was made, her face lied to our old friends, stating she never gets love when they are not there.
After dinner, we gathered in the living room to catch up on life. Ginger moaned her way around the room all night. Someone would pet her, and then she looked for some more. It was not till the end of the evening, as old friends rose to use our bathroom, that it occurred to me why she was complaining. Mitch was the first to relieve himself. He was not two steps away before Ginger bounded up to his spot and made herself comfortable. We had taken all the soft and cozy cushions, leaving only the floor for her. The floor is no place for a royal dog like her.
Our old friends left to meet other friends they left behind. Ginger slept away Tuesday from her long weekend of protecting our home and meeting old friends.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
After what seemed like a month of constant rain, we had a rain-free weekend in northern Ohio. The temperature remained cool, but the sun shone, making it possible to do yard work. Ginger, our self-anointed queen and protector, felt the need to watch over everyone. This meant hours of ensuring the garden was arranged correctly and guarding Mom and Sister from the ever-present dangers of rabbits, chipmunks, and Bentley, the most evil dog next door.
Memorial Day brought old friends to the house. These families met in our home for a decade as part of our small group. Ginger held a special affinity for them, as they were her favorite acquaintances before they moved away. Their car pulled into our drive, which brought the wrath of the queen upon them. Then they stepped out of the vehicle, and the recognition settled into her mind. Their faces brought memories of old friends and good times. Her disapproving bark shifted to anticipation howls of joy and happiness.
We soon settled into dinner of smoked pork butt and turkey breast with all the fixings. Ginger sniffed her way around the table, looking for head rubs like she had never gotten one before. When eye contact was made, her face lied to our old friends, stating she never gets love when they are not there.
After dinner, we gathered in the living room to catch up on life. Ginger moaned her way around the room all night. Someone would pet her, and then she looked for some more. It was not till the end of the evening, as old friends rose to use our bathroom, that it occurred to me why she was complaining. Mitch was the first to relieve himself. He was not two steps away before Ginger bounded up to his spot and made herself comfortable. We had taken all the soft and cozy cushions, leaving only the floor for her. The floor is no place for a royal dog like her.
Our old friends left to meet other friends they left behind. Ginger slept away Tuesday from her long weekend of protecting our home and meeting old friends.
He Has Risen,
Danny Mac
