The world’s most mellow coyote meandered across the pasture at a slow trot. He occasionally stuck his head between rows of giant hay bales, checking for mice out of sheer habit, but on the whole he seemed indifferent about the affair. This was a coyote after my own heart. I’m sure he would have accepted a snack without hesitation, but only if a suicidally despondent rodent offered himself up on a plate of fine China.

He wasn’t wary and he wasn’t in a hurry, accurately assessing that Cooper the dog was imprisoned behind his backyard fence. He afforded but a single lackadaisical glance their way before continuing his stroll. He paid no attention to the two horses upon whose turf he was treading. The horses were perplexed. They backed against the barbed-wire fence and watched the coyote’s every move. They stood like stone statues, reminiscent of Buckingham Palace guards minus the red coats and ridiculous bearskin hats. Being utterly confused is not an unusual mode for horses, but this canid vignette left them more baffled than normal.

My first assumption, observing the scene from less than 100 feet distant, was that the coyote must be sick. After five minutes I revised that diagnosis. He wasn’t frothing at the mouth, twitching, tripping or displaying odd tics. While his behavior was very un-coyote like, he wasn’t vaguely confused or addled. I wondered if this was how coyotes act when no one is watching. We generally spot them dashing across the road or bounding over a newly harvested field, but really have no idea how they spend their free time.

Perhaps there was nothing on TV worth watching; I’m pretty sure a discerning coyote would find little entertainment value in Judge Judy, Dr. Phil or the endless cascade of game shows hosted by Steve Harvey. Perhaps this coyote was bored with Netflix, didn’t feel ready to kick back in the La-Z-Boy and crack the spine of a new novel. Perhaps, when content, coyotes simply take a mid-afternoon saunter and enjoy a bit of early April sunshine.

Most people, at least those who steer clear of city lights and urban sprawl, would have plugged this coyote with their trusty 30.06 or AR-15. He was an easy target, but I’ve always had an aversion to killing things that aren’t causing me a direct problem. Taking a shot at a coyote is an instinctual reflex among virtually all the farmers, ranchers, mountain men and hill folk I’ve known . . . and I get that. Coyotes kill calves and can make a mess of a chicken house. But, since I share space with neither cows nor cluckers, this particular coyote had caused me no offense. To the contrary, he was providing me with great amusement.

I’m not shy about whacking sick or problem critters, but my opinion on wildlife mirrors my opinion on people. It’s a live and let live scenario. If you don’t interfere with my life I’m not going to interfere with yours. The world would be a much better and happier place if humans and governments could grasp and adhere to this most simple of precepts (but they can’t and won’t, so don’t hold your breath).

The coyote continued his promenade for another ten minutes or so, eventually ambling toward a copse of timber surrounding a rancid mud hole that was once a shallow pond. I go there myself from time to time. The ground is etched with a multitude of tracks, a Bayeux Tapestry recording the comings and goings of coon, deer, rabbits and birds. The trees are alive with the racket of manic squirrels, and dead branches crack with every step. I like it; it’s a good place in which to sit a spell, private, the antithesis of the world at large.

I’d bet money the coyote watches me.

Most people get all giddy with the advent of the summer months. They take to the lake, float on the boat, grill for the thrill, and generally have fun in the sun. I can understand that, but I cannot relate to it even a tiny bit. You see, I’m more of a snow and cold type of guy. Spend a decade or so enduring temperatures of forty to fifty below zero, as I did, and your internal thermostat will become permanently whacked. I begin to perspire with vigor any time the mercury moves above sixty-five.

About this time last year, March was averaging a normal 45 degrees or so. I was in heaven, out chainsawing the remains of wind-crunched trees while wearing nothing but a t-shirt. Well, that’s not entirely true; I also had on pants and boots. Running a chainsaw while next to naked is just plain stupid. Nevertheless, for me, that was perfect weather, unbeatable, and something that I knew would soon be replaced by both the puppy and full-grown dog days of summer.

Whereas most folk can’t wait for the heat of a Missouri spring and summer, I can’t wait for it to leave. The days are too long; the sun is far too hot. Summer, in my mind, means ticks, chiggers, mosquitoes, fleas, spiders, gnats, ants, and weeds. It also means snakes. I’m pretty friendly with most critters, but snakes and I are locked in eternal warfare. I’m one of those people who believe that the only good snake is a dead snake, a thought process that most definitely runs afoul of the good and dedicated souls who work for the Missouri Department of Conservation.

I had been told that snakes were a protected species in our fair state, but took such yammering as simply more of the yarns, tall tales, and short fibs one encounters from the old boys that hang around the front porch of the local store. Still, being a curious sort, I dug out the Missouri wildlife code and looked it up. I could not believe my eyes when I read that all snakes native to Missouri are protected. In fact, the wildlife code places snakes in the same category as lizards and most turtles. These reptiles are considered non-game critters, and thus there is no season on killing them.

Such knowledge is going to put a serious crimp in my future dinner plans, and ye olde crockpot is already exhibiting signs of a deep and lasting depression.

But, back to my research into poisonous slithery things that are the spawn of hell. Apparently, it really is against the law to get medieval on copperheads, cottonmouths, and other types of pit vipers that are bent on invading one’s space or dropping into the canoe unannounced. Luckily, there is an inferred caveat that if one is in danger from a snake it is okay to help it shed this mortal coil. That’s nice to know, and I can say with complete truthfulness that I have never dispatched a snake unless it was coming at me with a knife, machine gun, garrote, flamethrower, or short-range nuclear warhead. Thus, and this eases my conscience mightily, I have managed to remain within the spirit, letter, and intent of the law.

I did break down and buy a pair of snake boots a few years back. Eighteen inches high they are, and guaranteed to turn away any fangs that strike below the knee. This will work for a time, but you can bet your boots (yours, not mine, I need them so I won’t get bit) that the snakes will soon hold a meeting and decide that they should always aim exactly one inch above my aforementioned patella.

The Missouri Conservation Department has all kinds of nice things to say about snakes. They say they are a valuable part of the ecosystem, that they eat rodents, blah, blah, blah. They say the venomous ones may concentrate around swamps, marshes, and bluffs. I can attest to the truth of that statement, as most of the ponds on my place are better defined as swampland. I’ve got cottonmouths by the score, and copperheads seem to appear every time I need to move some brush.

Still, being a firm believer in never breaking the law, I promise not to kill a snake unless it communicates a desire to inflict harm and/or an agonizing death upon my body. As long as the cottonmouths and copperheads keep their hemotoxins to themselves, and stay off my porch, we should have no problem.

After all, I really only carry a large pistol with birdshot in it so I can kill mosquitoes. They get mighty big in these parts, and as far as I can tell, they are not a protected species.

Yet.

For many people, or so I’m told, the advent of a new year brings a tangible feeling of rejuvenation. The simple act of flipping the last page of the calendar somehow provides the batteries of the soul with a fresh charge. It leads folks to believe, or at least hope, that what lies ahead will be more rosy than that which was left behind. Apparently, this changing of the digits is the metaphysical equivalent of a Mulligan, a do-over, the cosmic commensurate of being allowed to not only pass “GO,” but to also collect two-hundred dollars and be granted a boon from the Community Chest.

I’m not sure about the validity of such reactions, but that may be because I don’t own a calendar. Every year people send me calendars, and every year I stick them in a drawer. Actually, I’m beginning to suspect my drawers are merely off-ramps to a black hole. I cannot ever recall finding these dated gifts after stowing them away; they apparently vanish into the same sucking void that gobbles up socks, pens, lighters, sunglasses, and scraps of paper bearing very important phone numbers.

I’m just not big into times and dates, except in the case of historical context. They’re a good benchmark for looking back, but in terms of forward motion, the demarcation of days, weeks, months, and years is trivial. I prefer more simple rules of thumb. The sun is high or the moon is low. There’s frost on the pumpkin, snow in the air, redbuds in bloom, or tourists on the river.

How much more information does a body need?

At any rate, reliable sources tell me that we have left 2024 and are now in 2025. I’m unsure if this is good or bad. The year 2024 started off with a case of the virulent gloomies and went downhill from there. On the other hand, the prognosis for 2025 seems to indicate that we might experience skies that – if not clear – and least aren’t filled with black clouds. Jobs have been scarce, money has beem tight, and the crop of “elected” busybodies we’ve suffered under for the past four years seem determined to bankrupt us by levying new taxes on everything from air to zucchinis.

Maybe it’s just a hillbilly thing, but I’ve a strong aversion toward folks attempting to pry more green from my wallet. I’m especially opposed to this odious practice when they try and tell me it’s for my own good.

I’m hopeful 2025 will be a trifle better than normal, but I’m also a pessimist who seeks to avoid disappointment whenever possible. Thus, I’vedevised a personal methodology to assure acceptable levels of joy and minimize annoyance. You see, it recently struck me that, when a problem rears its ugly head, all a person need do is ask themselves a very simple question.

That being . . . “Can I do anything about it?”

If the answer to that query is in the affirmative, then there should be no cause for alarm. If the response is in the negative, there is as well no need to stew or sweat. All events are either within your control, or they’re not. In the former case, one needs but to implement a solution. In the latter case, since your actions will have no effect, the sole option is to relax to the inevitable.

I realize such an approach flies in the face of prevailing conventional wisdom, but conventional wisdom is nearly always a battle between the fashionable and the sagacious. It leads people to trust consensus over common senses, endorsing the popular belief that decisions are faulty if lacking in detail, complication, and an endless interrogation of mind and soul. When we look at life in retrospect, our best and most effective actions and judgments are inevitably those with the fewest moving parts.

It recently hit me that I’ve spent about 50 of my 65 years living in backwoods locales where simplicity has been the rule rather than the exception. In these places, you cut the wood, dodge the twister, and do your best to avoid getting drowned, frozen, or eaten. You don’t really take more than you need, but neither do you accept less than what you’re worth. For best results, in both those places and elsewhere, life should be lived not year-to-year, month-to-month, or even day-to-day. For the happiest and most harmonious outcome, minute-to-minute seems about right.

The point of all this, is that years don’t matter. Whether it’s 2024 or 2025 means very little when taken to the most basic of personal levels. It’s just a meaningless designation. Far more critical, since they are fleeting at best, are the minutes that make up one’s span of existence. You can spend it in worry, neck-deep in detail, or you can be thankful, enjoying the simple pleasures that are in abundance. You can have headaches, or you can have fun.

The correct choice requires no thought at all.

The weatherman is claiming that, here in Missouri, we’re about to be hit with what may be one of the worst ice and snow blasts in decades. At my place, the forecast is for around an inch of ice and high winds; and its almost guaranteed that the power lines (and maybe even the poles) are going to come down. That could be followed by a foot or more of snow . . . and several days of sub-zero temps.

Snow and cold I don’t mind . . . but I hate ice.

I’ve changed the oil in the generator, cleaned the air filter, and replaced the spark plug. I have 10 gallons of gas immediately at hand . . . and another 200 gallons in the big, farm-tank should I need it. I’ve busted out the space heater (my furnace is hard wired; my generator is not) and have an indoor-approved, ventless propane heater (and several days-worth of propane cannisters) should the genny fail.

I’m stocked on food (and dog food), and both the car and old, 4WD truck are gassed up. The heavy-duty extension cords are laid out and ready to plug in.

All should be well, unless I do something unwise . . . which is why this seems an opportune time to remind everyone that risking frostbite by going out and being witty during an ice-storm is inadvisable. Here’s a story to exemplify, and a few tips on what to do (or not do) should you find yourself frozen solid.

About a decade ago, I got a call from my late father (he was 90 at the time). I thought nothing of it when he said, matter of factly, “I need a little advice.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Oh, your mom fell in a snow drift,” he said, matter-of-factly. Dad never was one for drama or overt shows of emotion. “We’re socked in by a blizzard, and I was wondering what a person might do for frostbite.”

That was my “holy crap” moment. I soon learned that Mom (84 at the time) has been stuck in the drift for 20 minutes, and had attempted (unsuccessfully) to crawl the 50 yards to the house on her hands and knees. Living in a remote, rural, area of Missouri, and with roads impassable, there was no chance of getting her to a hospital.

Share Dubious Wisdom

Frostbite was nothing new to me, as I spent nearly 15 years in the northern Rockies and routinely dealt with temperatures of 50 below. My rule has always been that the best way to treat frostbite is to avoid putting yourself in situations where you’re at high risk for getting it. However, there are exceptions to every rule, and sometimes (often) things happen.

When they do, you need to keep your wits and follow a fairly precise treatment plan. Do things right and chances are good that a frostbitten person will recover. Do things wrong and you’re talking a world of pain, gangrene, possible amputation, and maybe even death.

My mom survived with no long-term damage. though she did need several doctor’s visits and antibiotics . . . and did endure a couple of months of pain in areas where her flesh had been severely frozen and blistered. Things could have been much, much worse.

Methods of dealing with frostbite depend upon whether you’re in the field or close to a warm shelter. Other factors – age, general health, smoking, alcohol intake, wind chill, even how warmly you are dressed – are also a consideration. It is important to keep in mind that a person with frostbite might also be enduring hypothermia, a lowering of the body’s core temperature (that’s when things really get spooky).

Just sounds lovely, doesn’t it? No wonder Florida and Arizona are so crowded.

Frostbite generally occurs on the extremities (nose, cheeks, ears, fingers, toes, etc). Your body knows it is dangerously cold and withdraws blood from these areas to keep vital organs warm and functioning. Symptoms typically begin with a “pins and needles” feeling on the affected spots, followed by numbness. If exposure to the cold continues the frostbitten areas will likely turn pale, white, or black.

If you haven’t guessed . . . black is really bad. The following are basic treatment techniques, some dos and don’ts.

• If at all feasible your best move is to get to a hospital. Always warm a person gradually, not quickly, if hospitalization is a non-starter

• Forget the old wives’ tales. NEVER apply snow to frostbite. Do not massage or rub the frozen skin. Do not use direct dry heat (like campfires, radiators, heating pads, etc) to warm a person. Direct heat might well cause burns to the frozen skin and tissue

• The best thing you can do for a frostbite victim is get them into a warm (not hot!) bath. Remove all their clothing and jewelry and immerse them fully. Apply warm, wet cloths to frostbitten areas on the face. Keep adding and removing water to the tub, and replacing the cloths, so the temperature stays constant. You’re generally looking at 30 to 40 minutes in the tub.

The frostbite victim is going to feel sensation returning, not to mention quite a bit of pain (frostbite is similar to a burn). When the skin around the frozen area is thawed and pliable the victim can be removed from the tub, dried, and wrapped in warm blankets.

• Apply dry, sterile dressings to frostbitten areas.

• Make the victim drink plenty of warm fluids. I had my father feed my mom increasingly warmer water in which he dissolved sugar; this increases blood volume. Broth is also fine. Avoid caffeinated drinks and alcohol.

• Move the frostbitten areas as little as possible. It is important that a frostbitten person receives medical attention (due to infection risks) as soon as possible. This is especially true if the thawed area develops blisters.

• If a person’s core temperature is below 95 degrees then they are in the grip of hypothermia. DO NOT put them in warm water. The shock could stop their heart.

• If you’re in the field when frostbite occurs DO NOT try and thaw skin unless you’re absolutely sure it will remain thawed. Thawing and re-freezing will only worsen the damage. Your goal at this point is to find a safe location before attempting the rewarming process.

Stay warm, ya’ll. Stay inside. This might be a bad one.

A Note from DW:

Just a request here. I recently started this blog, and since I don’t (and won’t) have any social media accounts, or know any hight-falutin’ influencers who might promote my stuff to others, the subscription base is pretty small.

If you feel like it, I would appreciate it any of you with social-media accounts (Twitter/Facebook/Instagram, etc) would repost it on yours, and encourage your friends/relatives/contacts to hit the “subscribe” button (it’s free).

It’s a lot more fun for me to write when I know more than a handful of people are reading.

I’m also posting a “share” button to make it easier.

Thanks

While my local tailor may perform alterations only on Monday and Wednesday between 3–5 p.m., the rest of humanity is not bound by the sacred canons of the clothier’s union. As individuals we should not feel compelled to believe that an amendment to one’s personal charter is an all or nothing proposition. We are nearing that time of year when it is common to articulate resolutions both large and small, but why is such a custom reserved for a single day? Each sunrise presents the perfect climate to make a change.

Come New Year’s Day, an infinite number of folks will vow to start anew. They will make their declarations and engage in the turning of new leaves. These are fine testaments to the power of free will and introspection, but there seems an inherent flaw in the process. It is not necessary to return to step one, to dispense with all the knowledge that has come before. Our sole mandate is to look around, identify your locale and place one foot in front of the other. After all, it is the joys, smiles, scars, and aches of the past which lead us to better shape and appreciate what is yet to be.

Discretion may well be the better part of valor, but the better part of wisdom resides in strategic concession. The key to a long and happy life often involves knowing when to give a bit of ground, to reconsider, to carefully plumb the depths of common sense. It is the sagacious individual who understands that, for the most harmonious outcome, our endeavors should dispense with the abstractions of beginning and end. Concepts such as ego, victory, and defeat are but parts of the whole that distract the mind from the task at hand. The two latter notions are transient at best. Excessive ego is a stumbling block whose price reflects poor value, the crutch of politicians, celebrities, talk-show hosts, and tele-evangelists.

I was thinking about these things while lying flat on the ground, my back in spasms and seed ticks munching my torso. Well, that’s not exactly true; while sprawled face-down in the weeds my primary concern revolved around whether or not my legs still worked. The deeper thought process didn’t begin until I crab-walked to the house and became reacquainted with my old friends Mr. Heat Pad and Mr. Advil.

I surmised that, when jousting at windmills, the windmill usually wins. It was time to surrender the particular chunk of territory that compelled me to try and lift logs which weighed more than I did. It was time to admit that denial is far more than a river in Egypt, that fighting age is a war of attrition against a tenacious adversary with an unblemished record. It didn’t matter that, during my Montana years, I spent a part of each day swinging a 20-pound wood maul and could lift and tote logs with nary a twinge. What mattered was that - if I didn’t alter my behavior - I could expect many more weeks constricted by that lovely fashion accessory known as a lumbar belt.

Thus, I installed a furnace in my house. A real one. One that works on electricity. I can still have my wood stove. I can still fell and saw a few trees, swing the big hammer, and enjoy the warmth and the orange flicker. I just don’t have to be obsessive or obstinate about it.

Out with the old, in with the new? Not really. More like appreciating the old and accepting the new with grace and enthusiasm. It’s not about starting over, or cursing the compulsory. It’s about understanding the importance of experience, utilizing the trials of then and the tests of now to meet the future with a dollop of perspicacity.

It is good to look before you leap, to rest before you resolve. But, further contemplation is required when the urge strikes to wholly uproot the weathered oak and replace it with a sapling. Far better to trim and prune, to make the best of, and perhaps make better, what you already have.

Thanks to the enlightening effects of a bad back, I’ve handed down a commutation of sentence on quite a few of my weathered oaks. I’m content with a small, happy blaze. I’m at peace with the realization that many struggles are of our own design.

I’m pleased with the new furnace, warmed by the recognition that, with simple assent to the inevitable, the trials of time fade like whispers on the wind.

I’ve reached the conclusion that most people live in a fantasy world, a place devoid of logic or rational thought. This large contingent of the populace seems to believe the world owes them a living, that somehow they deserve to be taken care of by others, that the sky will open and they will be showered by the largesse that is their inalienable right. They are supplicants of the ruby slipper, the minions of the genie in the bottle. They refuse to realize that life requires effort.

Worse yet, it would utterly shatter their value system to consider the reality that, even with hard work, struggle and failure are far more prevalent than success. The inescapable fact of life is that few people ever obtain their dreams.

I suspect that’s because, in many cases, their dreams were unobtainable in the first place.

The achievement of high goals - whether those ambitions revolve around wealth, fame, love, or flying to the moon - is only possible though single-minded devotion, utter passion, a laser-like focus or any and all of the above. And that’s only part of the equation. Snatching the prize one seeks also involves natural talent, intelligence, luck, and in many cases, the intervention of highly placed contacts. Oh sure, on occasion some fool wins the lottery; there are always exceptions to the rule. For the most part, however, we walk about with our heads in the clouds, tripping over every stick, rock, and pothole in our path.

Henry David Thoreau had it right. “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation; A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind.”

I’ve often wondered about those words, and feel they hold essential truth. With the advent of our omnipresent tech and media culture, they are even more apparent.

How many people are truly happy with their jobs, view them as something other than an atrocious task that provides nothing more than enough money to eke out an existence? It has become the standard of our society, in our jokes and theater, to speak of the person who feels their avocation is detestable. How many people regret the choices they make in their personal lives; doesn’t a 50% plus divorce rate and countless deadbeat dads and moms indicate that we are a fickle and unsatisfied culture?

What sort of narcissistic mind-set leads a rich kid to emerge from his unimpressive life and kill an insurance CEO in cold blood ? What but self-loathing leads a Little League father to stand on the sideline and scream like a madman? What but a belief in their own inability to thrive leads people to vote for liberal politicians who make socialistic promises that are blatantly pie in the sky, that could never be met?

I’m not amazed that people can sometimes believe lies - for some people are very good liars. What amazes me is how often people lie to themselves. What is it about the truths of human nature that people find terrifying?

Are our games and amusements a concealment of underlying despair? A goodly portion of them do involve drugs and alcohol, substances designed to numb us from life itself. More evident than that is the frantic pace so many keep in pursuit of those games and amusements. It seems much of America is obsessed with filling every spare minute of their time with activity. You can’t just sit and think, you can’t relax under the tree scratching the ears of a dog. You must be glued to a screen 24/7, consuming a non-stop diet of trash and falsehoods that rot your brain and send you into clinical depression. You must fill your time with something, anything, all things . . . rather than taking a moment, daily, to pause and reflect and be thankful.

Do not mistake; I’m not saying that a full, active, and busy life is bad. What I am saying is that many engage in frenetic “recreation” as a cover, the non-stop pace an attempt to convince others, and maybe themselves, how happy and fulfilled they truly are. Mostly, I think people fill up every minute of their spare time so they can avoid looking in the mirror, so they can avoid spending time with themselves.

And ironically, if they wish to change their lot in life, that’s exactly what people should be doing. It is up to the individual to make things better. It is not up to fate or society, or government. It all starts with admitting one’s strengths and weaknesses, having a personal code involving something other than which way the winds of peer pressure are blowing.

I’ve read that, across the Temple of Delphi in ancient Greece, were carved the words “know thyself.”

It’s sad that so few people take the time to do just that.

The author in his much younger days . . . Montana, around 1999

Many years ago, while being interviewed for a feature article, I was asked a very wise question. “Why” said the writer, “does someone who lives as solo as you do align himself so completely with dogs, the animals with the greatest pack instinct?”

That inquiry has crossed my mind many times, for it was probably one of the few queries ever posed to me that I couldn’t answer outright and definitively. Unlike the feckless probings of many modern journalists, this fellow’s interrogatory went deep beneath the surface, and touched on areas I’d never thought to explore.

I’m still not sure I have the whole answer, but I do have part of it. The easy response would be that which is readily apparent but nonetheless true. Dogs are loyal and honest, and you generally know where they stand (or sit, or lie down). They don’t beat around the bush; they merely lift a leg on it. They are compassionate to the core, and if they do deceive or steal every so often, it is only in a playful, “ha! tricked you into giving me that piece of steak,” manner. Love them, and they return that love unconditionally and eternally. They are quick to forgive an affront, and only hold grudges against cats.

Dogs are so far above humans on the emotional evolutionary scale as to make our species seem as advanced as an amoeba. They know intrinsically if you’re happy, sad, hungry, or tired, and comport themselves accordingly. They are intelligent in their own way - not our way - but their hearts and souls could fill a stadium.

As I say, that’s the easy reply. To leave it with that would be to avoid the truth of deeper self-examination, something I view as a quest which should be constantly undertaken by all people. Such being the case, I’ve continued to ponder the question long and hard.

By way of explanation, I spend nearly 24 hours a day with dogs, and have done so for years. In this time, I’ve come to know their quirks and idiosyncrasies as well as they know mine. Dogs talk, maybe not with words, but with body language, sounds and behavior. The way they walk or run means one thing; the way they lie down means another. A raise of the chin, a tilt of the head, the flick of an ear, the speed of the tail wag (raised or lowered), and myriad other behavioral traits communicate their wants, needs, desires, and feelings.

But, as with most people, I’m ducking the question and dodging the answer. The real reason I hang with the pups is because of their blunt and forthright conduct. With the canine corps, actions not only speak louder than words, they are the words.

And this is the crux of my love for canines. Until I know a person implicitly, I judge their character solely on their actions. I’ve learned over the years that, until one has proven their honor and integrity, words are basically meaningless. Promises are often uttered and forgotten within the same breath. People mislead and obfuscate, depending on their mood of the moment. They can willingly lead you down the garden path, leaving you lost and stranded at the first glance of a shiny object that seems better, different, new, exciting, or (usually) unobtainable.

Dogs night engage in the latter excursion, but the difference between them and us is that they always come back. Unlike us, they know themselves and they know what they want. They know who and what is home, and do not give it up in the futile search for greener pastures. Our kind, on the other hand, will too often give up everything, leave on the breeze and regret our hasty and unthought decisions. Then we will rail at the gods over our bad fortune in losing that which we willing tossed away.

So, there’s the answer. I dance with dogs because, in their furry culture, and out of sheer necessity and purity of heart, actions always speak louder than words. No guessing, no second guessing, no fear that the words said today will be gone tomorrow, no suspicion that the happy lick to the face will transform into fangs through the jugular.

These days, as time marches on and I see a world so often lacking in commitment, honor, compassion, and integrity, I endeavor to behave more and more like a dog. I treasure those to whom I am close, will give them all that is within me, but I have zero hesitation in snapping and biting at those bereft of kindness or heart.

Oddly, it has always been a derogatory commentary in our society to say that a person has been treated like a dog. I suspect dogs have a similar saying. I’m sure they discuss this as they sprawl in the shade and consider the weighty matters of running, jumping and fetching.

“That poor fellow,” they say, “he’s been treated like a person.”

In the technological sense, man zips along like a house ‘a fire. One day you’re bragging about your fancy, hand-chiseled, granite wheel, the next you’re revving up a Ferrari Testarosa. One day you’re thinking the moon is made of green cheese, the next you’re perusing the lunar landscape in a mini-Hummer. Pictographs become photographs become holographs.

We’re a damned witty bunch, our technological evolution astounding. Unfortunately, our maturation rate and emotional development would place third in a race with molasses in January. It’s not that we have bad intentions, it’s simply that we consistently forget that the road to hell is paved with good ones. We’re dandy with doo dads and trinkets, but we’re remedial mindreaders when it comes to dealing with each other.

I’m fascinated by human interaction. Often depressed by it, but fascinated nonetheless. Neighbors get in slug-fests over a quarter inch discrepancy in a property line. Parents go bonkers along the sidelines of the Pee Wee football game. Businesses, particularly those in a small town, nearly always try and badmouth their competition, even though the economic gain from such efforts is largely non-existent. Loving couples, seeming inseparable one week, find themselves cast into the pit of despair the next.

All this over what? When it comes right down to it, we’re pretty much cave people.

It’s sad, really. We are adept at building things, but we function ever so poorly in the maintenance department. Should our toys break, we fix them with the alacrity of a happy banshee on speed. Should our interpersonal or community relationships endure system shutdown, we turn them this way and that, ponder, shed a few tears, and promptly consign them to the heap. It’s not that we don’t want to fix them. It’s just that we never learned how.

Did ya’ll ever think that maybe we’ve got this life thing backwards? Face it, the world is a weird-ass place these days. Racial strife? Absolutely no logical reason for it, but there it is. Third World bloodbaths? You’d think these guys would get tired of butchering each other after a few 1,000 years and move on to Scrabble tournaments. International terrorists . . . well ok . . . I have to admit that I’m onboard with simply whacking them.

Sitting here in my cave, it strikes me that individuals don’t really function that different from countries when it comes to messing up paradise. Maybe, like countries, we are too filled with pride, stubbornness, fear, and self importance to appreciate what we have, or what we could have. Inevitably, we misunderstand, trip over our own tongues, and do just the silliest things. Maybe we are all slow children at heart, stumbling along and repeatedly sticking our hands in the flame, wanting what we want when we want it, without really knowing why we want it.

So, with the exception of the aforementioned terrorists - for whom whacking is way too nice a fate - I can only offer this advice. When it comes to that forgiving and forgetting deal, the latter is far more critical than the former. Protect that which you love and cherish it every second, for without care and consideration it will be gone quicker than you can say World Trade Center. Don’t become apathetic, inconsiderate, or arrogant, for such roads lead to madness, regret, and sorrow. Count to 10 when your angry mind visits the thorny pit, then wait a day and count to 100.

It’s a tough call, attempting to define the human condition. Since nobody has figured it out since roughly the beginning of time, you’ll find no wise and sagacious answers from this quarter. Still, I am consistently boggled that the inhabitants of our little blue ball fail to learn, that we repeat the same mistakes time and again. Over the eons, we’ve come up with zip. Give us a few thousand more eons and I suspect we will still be sitting around scratching our armpits.

Maybe, being mere humans, we fail to foresee the ramifications resulting from behavior that is less than intelligent. Perhaps we are myopic, always looking at the individual parts rather than the whole.

As I said, we humans are good at building things. Unfortunately, we’re even more versed at breaking them. When it comes to affronts against each other, real or perceived, we simply to not have the ability to facilitate repairs. Mushroom clouds are notoriously resistant to recall. Once the damage is done, all one can do is pick through the rubble for cherished memories, momentos and trinkets. Well, you can get real drunk too, but hangovers hurt.

It’s a cryin’ shame, no matter if you’re talking geopolitically, within the confines of the home, or out at the old ball game. I recall an ad campaign from the 70s . . . something to the effect of “you never get a second chance to make a first impression.”

It’s a great line . . . and I’m sure it sold a lot of soap, or deodorant, or Hai Karate cologne, or something.

But, it’s something most people - or at least those who live in a world saturated with egotism, arrogance, and narcissism - do not even care to learn.

Give me a plot of land on a tree covered hill, a place where wood smoke clings to the branches and the closest neighbor can barely hear the sound of my 30-30 pistol. Give me a little house with a little porch, someplace where I can sit under the night stars, listening to the wind’s journey while my dogs beg for a scratch behind the ears. Give me a creek with a few fish, or failing that, a pond crowded with skeletal brush. Give me a herd of monster-size puppies, a fishing rod, a good book, and a lamp. Give me a half decent road, enormous isolation, a desk upon which to write, a Hohner harmonica, and the crash of an animal through the underbrush.

You want to know my idea of paradise? Welcome to Hermit’s Heaven.

The word hermit has a bad connotation. It brings to mind images of stringy-haired old men with curling yellow fingernails, creatures devoid of all but three or four teeth who despise their own species and drool into an evening bowl of cold pork and beans. It is a vision of an anti-social miscreant with little use for himself or others, a hobbling cretin in tattered rags who mutters to himself and kicks cats. A hermit is often thought of as a person who, plain and simple, hates life.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Loony-toon folks who hear voices in their beanie-weenies and rarely bathe do not have the hermit bent. They may have a short in their brain, but let’s not confuse mental disease and improper hygiene with heartfelt desire and an exploratory mind set. Hermits, you see, are simply following their own nature. Crazy people are just crazy.

I’ve had the opportunity to know several hermits, and without exception all shared an affinity for living beyond compare. They are well traveled and gregarious with a thirst for knowledge. They shower, they speak, and most of all, they learn. They are for the most part kind-hearted, with a group of scattered close friends whom they consider family. They like people, but do not feel the compulsion to be constantly surrounded, making idle chit-chat for the sake of hearing their own head rattle. They may have a love of silence and solitude, but they also love life. The difference, is that their method of existence is different from the norm.

Are they odd? Usually, at least if judged by the status quo. Do they care? Not really.

I have been a hermit for as long as I can remember. From the time when I was five or six I could most likely be found either alone on the pond dam (ostensibly in search of catfish but really in another dimension) or off wandering the farm with Skipper the beagle. Solitude gives time to think, time to try and understand our existence so that we may better enjoy it. Hermits, contrary to popular belief, have not necessarily suffered some great and tragic loss which spurs them to withdraw from society and the things of man. In many cases they are merely amazed by (Simon and Garfunkel please forgive me) the sounds of silence. It is the quiet, the absence of TV commercials, billboards, roaring engines and those who hustle and bustle which makes them feel truly at peace. It is the calm that arrives with such peace that lets them venture into the world and be further amazed.

Friends in my past have been, and still are, at a loss to understand my hermit desires. They could not/cannot comprehend the desire to, often, be alone. At one point I reached a stage where I would make up false “prior engagements” just to avoid the inevitable cry of “Why … we can’t have you being by yourself.” Now, I rarely bother. A life spent in locales off the beaten path has been good for the honesty genes. My preferred topography leans toward take-it-or-leave-it kinds of places. Consistently, I’ve taken it.

People still occasionally comment that I’m now too old for such a lifestyle, that my dogs won’t live forever. They lament that, in their minds, I missed out on the joys of marriage and family. I respond that age is a state of mind, and that when the sad time comes, as it always does, I will grieve the loss of my friend and strive to make room for another dog. As to the last, the inclination was never strongly within me. Some say that’s selfish. I say it’s honesty to self. Different yokes for different blokes.

One good Chinese curse is “may you lead an interesting life.” I do not view such as a curse in the least. The goal of life is to live it as you choose and to live it well; to do otherwise is to cheat yourself and all those with whom you share close association. We should be wise enough to give ourselves the freedom to follow our own roads.

So give me a few acres where the view lasts into tomorrow, a place where the clouds say hello and the coyotes sing night-songs of myriad yesterdays and endless tomorrows. Give me a little house with a little porch, someplace where I can traverse entire galaxies without leaving my chair, where ideas can flood my mind and be transferred to the eyes of those who turn the page. Give me the strength to be myself and the sight to see simplicity. Give me a dozen slobbering hounds, leviathan catfish, a good book, and a lamp. Give me solitude and time, and I will repay it with joy and appreciation.

I may not have reached Hermit’s Heaven just yet, for the definition and locale is always changing.

But I’ve certainly enjoyed the ride

Occasionally I like to look back at some of the stuff I wrote when I was younger. Since I’ve got over 30 years worth of columns in the archive, it’s a pretty good glimpse of what I was thinking, and how I was thinking, as a younger guy.

Sometimes I shake my head . . . but sometimes I get a laugh. This one, from 2003, still cracks me up. Enjoy

Being a Southern boy, I like chicken. I like it baked or broiled or broasted or barbecued. It's hard to beat a mess of fowl that's been soaked in buttermilk, rolled in corn meal and dunked in the deep fryer. I've never been quite certain whether or not chicken prepared in this manner really tastes like chicken - you could probably batter-fry the backseat of a Chevy and receive a similar gustatory sensation -- but that's beside the point.

Chicken tastes like chicken, which tastes like fish, which tastes like gator, which tastes like bull-frog, which tastes like snake, which tastes like rabbit, which tastes like the aforementioned rear cushion of a 68' Impala. The Fry Daddy is an equal opportunity appliance. If you really want to mess people up when eating chicken, take a big bite and loudly exclaim "ummm..ummm. Tastes like bull-frog."

I'm partial to the skin of the chicken, which is where the health giving nutrients inherent to a heavy batter are located. I'm particularly partial to the skin if it's of the "Extra Crispy" variety. The invention of "Extra Crispy" is the reason that I place the late Colonel Harlan Sanders, founder of Kentucky Fried Chicken, on the same pedestal with such visionaries and humanitarians as Henry Ford, Mother Teresa and Rush Limbaugh. Some folks went weepy when Princess Diana shed this mortal coil. Others rent their clothes when John John Kennedy splashed into the Atlantic. Millions mourned because Elvis got all drugged-up and fell off the toilet.

Me . . . I shed a tear when Colonel Sanders went to that big ol' red and white revolving bucket in the sky. That's why I'm offended, on a spiritual level, that the fine culinary institution which bears the Colonel's name and visage is under attack by the heinous miscreants known as People For The Ethical Treatment of Animals.

PETA is launching a boycott against KFC's parent company (Yum Brands of Louisville, Ky., and no, I didn't make up that name) with allegations of animal-rights abuses. PETA is whining that KFC chickens don't have nice living quarters (no maids...no satellite dish) and are sent to their reward in a barbarous manner.

Since PETA people consider the mere consumption of a critter an animal-rights abuse, I put little faith in their claims. Instead, I will side with Yum Brands, as they have a stellar track record in regard to gastronomic principle.

Along with KFC, the company owns Pizza Hut, Taco Bell and Long John Silver. These are all fine firms, but I'm particularly fond of the latter, assuming of course that they still give out flimsy paper pirate hats and eye patches. One cannot help but enjoy a blood-thirsty buccaneer motif while eating deep-sea denizens prepared in boiling oil. Personally, I revel in donning such apparel and yelling "Arrrrrgh...Ahoy Matey" at highly inappropriate times. This may explain why I don't have a lot of second dates.

PETA folks though . . . they're a soy and tofu, "bless the beasts and children" kind of clan with zero regard for pirate costumes or the blessed memory of kindly old Southern Colonels. They don't like to chow down on anything with a face, and right there is a sign of severe mental dysfunction.

They pretend to be concerned about the "rights" of all living things, which is pretty funny since it was recently reported that the group publicly gives money to domestic terrorist organizations such as the Earth Liberation Front. I really respect an outfit which places the entitlements of moles, rats, possums, crabs, tapeworms and barnyard birds above those of humans who could well be burned alive when the ELF crowd torches their mountain-side condo.

PETA is largely supported by Hollywood celebrities and Democratic sympathizers. Since these sub-cultures are usually of a pacifist mindset, it only makes sense that they would advocate giving Foghorn Leghorn the right to vote, buy beer and receive government subsidized tattoo removal. Their commonalties with chickens are readily apparent, once again proving the old adage that "it takes one to know one."

Because of this insidious boycott against the legacy of the Colonel, I plan on eating at KFC as often as possible. They offer a dandy buffet for about seven bucks. It features not only all the batter-fried chicken skin you can swallow, but also their famous mashed taters, gravy and a host of other epicurean delights. PETA's rationale that KFC's "crude and ineffective electric stunning and throat-slitting of chickens" is inhumane will only lead me to order more Extra Crispy.

Frankly, that electric stunning bit strikes me as an awful lot of unnecessary work. When I was a kid we would just slap Henny Penny on a stump and whack her head off with a hatchet. It's fairly interesting work, as the decapitated fowl nearly always makes a mad, spurting, flapping dash of 30 or 40 feet before succumbing to the noggin-ectomy procedure.

Nature is a teacher, and the lesson learned from acephalous poultry is that you really don't need a brain to run around like a dang-fool idiot making a spectacle of yourself.

I'm certain the PETA people can relate.

As I write these words, I’m reflecting on that fact that I just turned 65.  I’m not sure how that happened, but it’s not like I’m complaining. Reaching 65 is oodles better than not reaching 65, however the milestone does make me a trifle contemplative.

Time flies when you’re having fun, and when I look back at the whole picture, I’ve had far more than my share of jollies. Still, it’s tough to get my head around the idea that I’m now on Medicare and collecting Social Security (took it early). It was just an eyeblink ago that I was acting like a rum-soaked pirate in 1980s Florida, making like a latter-day mountain recluse in 1990s Montana, and reveling in the joyous Ozark beauty that surrounded my ramshackle river-cabin a mere 20 years ago

There’s something to be said for the encroachment of age. I’m not sure what that something might be, but I’m positive it exists. Wisdom perhaps? Maturity? Selective aural sense? I’m far from my dog Hugo’s 90+ years, but his ability to hear the rattle of the Milkbone box while remaining unaware of my yells to quit rolling in the dead possum would appear indicative of high-level brain function. I’m envious, just as I’m envious of his manner of aging gracefully. I doubt, should I reach the near-centenarian mark, that I’ll still be able to run around the yard and bark threateningly at delivery drivers as he does. Should I reach his age, I suspect I’ll be gumming my porridge, drooling a bunch, and glazing out on Matlock re-runs.

So, here’s the question. Does age and experience heighten one’s cognitive insight? Do we become more aware of actions and ramifications as we grow older? Do the scars of longevity outweigh youthful exuberance, or vice versa? As we slow down, as our physical senses become weary and worn, do we gain more clarity of truth and right action?

Maybe. Sometimes. How’s that for an answer? As individuals - and this is based purely on anecdotal evidence - many people do transmute the lessons of the years into a higher state of being. Collectively however, as a nation and as a culture, I suspect we become ever more insensate. Societies peak, decline and fade away, only to be replaced by another system of “civilized” rules and statutes which rarely progress beyond the violent and selfish stupidity of adolescence.

This would appear to be a theorem of history; any erudite and sagacious culture is doomed, and in fact realizes it is doomed. Those societies that build to a state of advanced perspicuity also achieve prescience of their own decline.

In short . . . by the time you’re smart enough to realize you’re on the right road, you also know that some self-absorbed doofus from Never-Never Land is about to pass on a blind curve, driving like a bat out of hell, headed straight down your lane, and wholly ignorant of the fact that the inevitable high-speed mating of radiators is but a nanosecond away.

Survive enough of these incidents and we as individuals eventually (hopefully) learn to be wary of hills, curves, scents in the wind, and that which appears like a bolt from the blue. We learn to paraphrase Copernicus, taking to heart the truism that the world does not revolve around us, acutely aware that the odds of such largesse are infinitesimal. We comprehend the honesty of the phrase “that which is too good to be true, usually is.”

We don’t look gift horses in the mouth, but we check that filly closely, if for no other reason than to ascertain that she’s not of the Trojan variety. We arrive at the conclusion that man’s most perceptive and accurate laws were written by a guy named Murphy,

That’s what we do if we’re smart. Unfortunately, cultures and societies are rarely that. Individuals will only lay their hand on the stove so many times before they realize that red-hot metal equals injury. Nations, on the other hand, battle the same wars for centuries, for the same reasons.

They undertake, time and again, to effect the same ineffectual and unworkable methods of resolution. The technology of attack waxes and wanes, but the intellectual justification behind the conflict is always the same; it’s either a case of “you’ve got what I want,” or “you can’t have what I’ve got.” I seriously believe that the motivations behind every armed conflict in history boils down to variations of those two dubious and parallel rationales.

And, if it wasn’t obvious, those are the rationales most often voiced by spoiled children.

Individuals can learn, of that I’m certain

Governments, on the other hand, never will.

Up until about 20+ years ago, it was possible (and even likely) that most people had friends with beliefs that were diametrically opposed to their own.  Your neighbor could be a raging lib (or vice versa, if you're a lib) and you'd never know the details of their beliefs.  You would MAYBE know they voted for a candidate you despised, but only if they had a campaign sign stuck in their lawn.  However, it wasn't something people discussed in polite company, and you could still attend the same barbecues or drink a couple beers without confrontations, fights, or tantrums.

The Internet generally, and social media in particular, changed all that.  People began posting their most virulent thoughts and ridiculous beliefs online, and even when doing so anonymously (which was and is 99.9% of the time) they became more and more outraged at seeing thoughts and opinions that differed from their own. They became more and more angry online, and that anger spilled into day-to-day interactions.

A sign in the yard went from being just a sign, to an identifier of the enemy, someone who must be hated and crushed. And, that's just the political fall-out.  Even greater declines have occurred with the moral and ethical descent of society.  For the topper . . . IQ levels began dropping, and continue to plummet.  It's all thanks to the Internet generally, and social media specifically.

When the fall of civilization in the 20th century is recorded (assuming there's anyone left to record it) the blame will fall soundly at the feet of the social media/tech moguls who made it possible. Historians will be amazed that billions of people, worldwide, allowed themselves to be manipulated by technology that came from the brains of autistic computer nerds lacking even the tiniest measure of empathy, compassion. common sense, or social skills (aka: sociopaths). 

The Internet basically turned most people into mouth-breathing, tongue-chewing ass-hats who felt compelled to share the innermost thoughts and bizarre desires that would best be kept confined in their own minds.

If you like these posts from Dubious Wisdom, please feel free to share them with your friends, relatives, enemies, pets, and house plants.

This is probably going to be an ongoing feature of the Dubious Wisdom blog . . . for those days when I have some sort of weirdness pop into my head but don’t feel like writing a whole column about it.

As always . . . thoughts and comments are welcome

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I have a theory that the internet/social media has actually turned people into insufferable jackasses because they can say what they want without consequences. Even if their views are wildly unpopular, deviant, or insane, they can still find a like-minded forum that will function as a support group. This - combined with getting rewarded for posting outlandish videos of bad behavior, saying terrible things, and supporting the most bizarre tenets of the woke agenda - has raced us to the lowest acceptable common denominators of society.

If there was no internet, Kim Kardashian would work at McDonalds.

Killing fish.

I am not a “catch and release” sort of fellow. In fact, I find the concept to be ridiculous, perhaps a Socialistic plot designed to break down the very bedrock of society. I have a theory that people who say they practice “catch and release” are either (A) very poor fisherman who never catch anything but moss, a buzz or a cold or (B) deprived individuals who have never been exposed to the wholly American concept of “catch and eat.”

These folks cannot be bad people; after all, they are fishing. That act, in and of itself, implies a pure soul. Remember, there are no bad fishermen…just bad TV fishing shows. I suspect the real problem is that, during their formative years, the “catch and release” practitioners received a sub-standard education regarding the inalienable right of piscatorial whacking. Thus, I have a certain humanitarian duty to bring the unenlightened into the warming glow of truth, justice, and American-made treble hooks.

First off, there is one commandment that supersedes all others when it comes to pursuing and capturing the denizens of river, creek, pond and lake. It is this:  “In the deep-fryer, all fish are created equal.”  Largemouth, smallmouth, goggle-eye, perch, bluegill, sucker, drum, buffalo… even trout. All these are fair game for the age-old techniques of “catch and eat.” Frankly I am boggled when I hear of someone preparing a fish in an oven, or sautéing it in garlic butter or (and this explains a lot about the French) poaching it in cream sauce. Let’s not even talk about sushi. It’s just another form of bait, high-dollar chum that has been pawned off as a faddish delicacy on an impressionable public.

No, a dead fish should enjoy full-immersion in a Zip-Loc shower of flour or cornmeal or both, maybe dunked in some egg, milk or beer and showered again. Then, it’s straight into a 400-degree vat of bubbling oil till golden brown. The deceased is then to be served with curly fries and slaw and ketchup and tarter sauce and hush puppies. For the novice, please note that you should not attempt to fry the cole slaw, ketchup or tarter sauce. You’ll just end up with a mess, and likely some third-degree burns. Plus, people will think you’re addled…and they’ll be right.

Second law…any method of fishing is a good method of fishing, assuming said method results in a full stringer. Though I don’t personally partake of techniques such as noodling (I’m a snake magnet), gigging (too blamed cold), trot or juglines (too lazy to check them regularly), shocking (electricity has proven itself to not be my friend) or high explosives (I’m already half-deaf), I personally hold nothing against those who do. A friend of mine used to speak of fishing with hand grenades during his Vietnam days. To me, that is angling dedication personified. It is tangible proof that while necessity is the mother of invention, the father of invention is a wad of C-4 or a bunch of #10 Primacord.

Me…I prefer to shove off in the canoe with a bunch of minnows, liver, worms and big, honkin’ hooks. I paddle slowly, taking in the silence of the Gasconade, watching the herons, breathing deep the perfume of loamy bank and slow water, and occasionally dispensing a water moccasin with extreme prejudice. I light my pipe, rig my line, cast up and downstream, and hook a little bell to the poles. If the pole bounces or the bell rings (hopefully waking me up) I have a fish.

And that fish, with any luck, is of the cat variety. This is the most important lesson of all. You see, the catfish is the king of all fish. They are easy to catch in a lake or farm pond, but often a tad hard to find in rivers. It’s all about temperature. Cats only bite well when the temperature pleases them. In ponds and lakes you can find holes and hide-outs with varying temperate zones. On more shallow rivers, you have to search, and think, and acquire the patience of Job.  But should you be successful, hooking and landing your catch, whacking and cleaning and boiling in oil, you will experience a gastronomic treat that makes the Ambrosia of the Greek Gods seem like char-broiled mole in comparison.

Admittedly, there are many days when you will not catch a fish. This is a good thing, for it means those finned, whiskered devils who have eluded your wiliest tricks are growing ever larger. When you finally win the day they will fight harder, dive deeper and taste better. A skunked fishing trip gives one the incentive and dreams to await the next sunrise with enthusiasm and excitement.

But for goodness sake, on those perfect days when the fish flock to your blood-bait-bedecked hook, don’t throw them back. In some cultures, Fishus Interruptus is viewed as a cardinal sin.

It’s a wonderful thing to tell the tale of “the one that got away.”

Regaling the crowd with the legend of “the one you tossed back” will just get you laughed at.