New Year’s Revolutions

Posted on January 9, 2016 by Ben Gannon

Moses: Mount Sinai High School Senior Picture

It’s one full week into the new year, and I haven’t broken one commandment. It’s a streak I’ve maintained for many years. (The first week anyway.) Most New Year’s resolutions are for the mocking birds. I’ve found that not breaking the ten C’s isn’t that difficult. So, each year, in a revolutionary, or cyclical pattern, I just do my best not to break any of them. Rather than thinking about what I shall change each year, I simply review the commandments online, reflect on Charlton Heston’s over acting, and work on the one which tends to be the most problematic for me. I blame this one on my father.

My dad tossed the Lord’s name in vain as often as he tossed his cigarette butts out, steps before entering church each Saturday night or Sunday morning. I wish “thou shall not smoke” was one of the commandments. There would be a special place in heaven for me. On the other hand, if drinking a beer broke one of the commandments, there would be a special place in Hell for me.

Sadly, this taking the “Lord’s name in vain” is both contagious and perhaps genetic. Usually, I use it around the animals when they puke or crap in my office, and it’s commonly directed at my lovely wife who tries to adopt, save or purchase every animal in the Pacific Northwest. Sometimes, it flies out of my mouth as easily as saying please and thank you at the grocery store, or as smoothly as Charlton Heston can utter the phrase, “Of course you can buy a gun, young man. Just don’t use it to murder humans. You would then be breaking one of the most sacred of commandments. Now, get your dirty hands off me, you damn dirty teenager!”

Holy Be Jesus

Posted on December 31, 2015 by Ben Gannon

Technological gadgets rule our world the same way dinosaurs did decades ago when Jurasic Park was released. Thus, these devices dominated much of the space beneath our 2015 Christmas trees.

Technology frightens me. Fortunately, I am married to someone who stands up to technology with iron fingers, so when a random icon mysteriously shows up or vanishes on my laptop screen, I don’t run and hide. I simply, and, successfully, troubleshoot through her. We have a dog who is similar to me. She fears technology as much as heathens fear Jesus, but she doesn’t handle her fear so gracefully.

Speaking of Jesus, we have a gift, or device, in our house which scares the Bejesus out of one of our dogs. The device is an Amazon Echo, and it has a name. “She” is referred to as Alexa. This is how I can, so articulately, describe it: It is a voice activated machine capable of answering the most burning of questions or may act as a servant if you wish to give it commands. Alexa is, basically, a highly advanced psychic eight ball with a voice. At any moment, we can ask Alexa to play music or provide the daily news. We may ask her to tell us jokes, or tell us how many moons surround Jupiter. We may describe a smell in our house, and she will determine if it is coming from me or one of our animals. She’s quite handy at times, but she can also create an uneasy environment within the room. There are times when Alexa speaks when no one in the room is asking a question. When Alexa begins making us feel as though we are participating in a Twilight Zone episode, we try to remain calm for our animals. Alexa displays an ominous tone causing our dog, Etta, to stop texting other dogs in the neighborhood, drop her iPhone and run for shelter……….our bed.

Further disturbing, Alexa will talk in the middle of the night, which is quite disconcerting when we are a full floor above her domain and again haven’t prompted her with a question or command. Quite frankly, our poor dogs thinks it’s demonic. When Etta hears Alexa’s voice, she bolts out of the room faster than the Amish can build a barn. On Christmas morning, I wanted to play some classic Charlie Brown Christmas tunes, and upon hearing Alexa state, rather tonelessly, “Here are some Charlie Brown Christmas tunes just for you, Etta”, Etta fled our Christmas themed living room like a dog out of Hell. There’s nothing like the antichrist showing up on Christmas morn.

Here’s to a scary new year.

The Most Interesting Dog in the World

Posted on December 13, 2015 by Ben Gannon

Our dog, Jack, suffers from vertigo, but he doesn’t suffer from a lack of confidence. He’s the first dog I’ve ever met who enjoys going to the Veterinarian.

While other dogs may enter the clinic with fear, he acts as if he is a V.I.D. at the local veterinary speakeasy. And, after twelve or so years of being an honorary member of this exclusive canine club, he is. Strutting through the doors sporting a furry reddish golden retriever blazer and unnecessary leash, Jack is greeted by two employees, one taking his leash with honor, and the other respectfully petting him. Receptionists blush as he saunters with dignity to the scale, not requiring the usual request necessary for other dogs. Proud of his 120 pound frame, he turns to the nearest nurse, winks, and says, “Who loves ya, Baby?”

They don’t ask my wife and I if he can have a treat before seeing the doctor. They know his order. It’s a dry bone, solid, not broken. Rather than ravenously devouring the bone, he carries it around as if it was the finest of cigars. Usually too proud to drool, he will only do so upon request, but the drool must land in a cup with his name on it and kept in a refrigerated box for posterity.

Despite Jack’s bravado, we still have reservations when he moves so easily behind the closed doors with only the doctors and nurses. At the age of fourteen, we know his time is limited, regardless of how unique he is. Yet, he always turns to us before entering the “patients only den” and reassures us with a sniff in the air, knowing our smell remains only feet away. Never letting us down, he always returns with the same swagger he walked in with, and is showered with hugs and kisses from those who don’t wish him to leave the premises.

Recently, our Jack had a bout of “vertigo” and it was our first time witnessing it. When he collapsed on that Sunday, we thought the worse: heart attack, stroke, seizure? Never seeing him in such a desperate need of attention, we weren’t frightened, but concerned this day may be his last. Knowing he was still alive, frozen with uncertainty and panting as though each breath could be his last, my wife and I carried this one hundred and twenty pound gallon of fuzzy love down a rather large flight of stairs and placed him in the back of our car hoping to reach the hospital before his demise. We made it, and so did Jack.

After Jack was diagnosed, several hours passed, and he was eventually released to us. Upon being released, these people, from a hospital foreign to Jack, having never met him before this day, had a very difficult time saying goodbye. With a few canine cocktails in his system, he seemed happy to see us, but as a true gentleman, or gentle dog, looked at those in the hospital who comforted him in his time of trouble, tipped his hairy hat and wagged goodbye. Perhaps, he is just the most affable dog in the world.

For All Intensive Purposes

Posted on December 5, 2015 by Ben Gannon

My father was directly hit by an A-Bomb while fighting the war in Korea, and he survived it. Part of this introduction is true. If you are over the age of six, you probably can figure out which portion of this intro may be realistic.

Napalm and the A-Bomb, at the tender age of six, seem synonymous when asking your father about war. What’s the difference between napalm and the A-Bomb when you are six years of age? It would take an elementary teacher to describe the subtle difference to my brother during a show or tell session in the nineteen seventies.

While the teacher, probably suffering from a hangover, and not properly preparing for Monday’s lesson plan, asked my brother and other students about their father’s background, he responded by providing misinformation regarding our dad’s military service. Rather than disclosing the fact our father was burned by napalm in the war, he stated, “My dad was hit with an A-Bomb in the Korean War.” This quickly sobered up his teacher.

“An A-Bomb?”

Confident with his remarks, “Yes. It burned the back of his legs.”

“Are you positive it was an ‘A-Bomb’?

“Pretty sure. My father would never lie to me. He has the scars to prove it.”

Not wanting to embarrass my brother, the teacher simply suggested he clarify this with our father before discussing the matter any further.

Indeed, our father had the scars to prove he was burned by napalm, so my brother wasn’t lying. Mistaking “napalm” with an”A-bomb” my brother was just was a little hazy about the truth. I can’t blame him. Six older sisters yelling, singing, or just talking drives a man either insane or develop a poor sense of hearing. He chose the latter.

Everyone makes honest, unintentional mistakes whether they are six or sixty. The English language perpetuates this fact. Years ago, while struggling through college, I took a job at a worm farm where someone I worked with continued to improperly use the phrase, “for all intents and purposes”. Instead, he would say, “for all intensive purposes”. Not knowing him very well, and not wishing to hurt his feelings, I didn’t have the heart to correct him. Someone else working at the farm did, and we all had a laugh, including the man misusing the phrase. In fact, he thanked the person correcting him.

At the age of six, people should be excused for replacing napalm with an A-bomb, and at the age of sixty, you are excused from using the phrase, “For all intensive purposes”. And, if the person uses it in an angry manner, just let it slide. It actually is correct.

We already live in a crazy world. Just think about how much crazier it would be if we added phrases instead of words to the lovely game of Scrabble.

To a Very Graceful Thanksgiving

Posted on November 25, 2015 by Ben Gannon

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…….” Just before plunging into a Thanksgiving feast, my father would utter these words, followed by a simple prayer, and when finished, his sons and daughters would all say with sincerity, “Thanks Mom!” Since she prepared most of the feast, both before we ate, and after we were drowning in gravy, turkey and stuffing, we would again display our gratitude. We weren’t forced to do it. Rather, we knew we owed her the gesture. And, when the eating subsided, someone would do the dishes. I was always thankful for those suckers. Since I was the youngest, it was preferred I just stay out of the way. No problem.

As a child, those were the days when saying grace and being thankful was so simple. I was truly thankful for my mother, father and food. Later, in the early teens, it became a little more taxing to start thinking about those who don’t have food on the table, a roof over their heads, or someone to do the dishes for them. If you were fortunate like me, you began realizing why we should be so thankful for so many other things besides the side of mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. So, as I grew older, the more difficult it became to give thanks before dinner, especially when invited to others’ homes where grace took on a whole new despicable meaning.

I’ve always despised publicly giving thanks on command. After my dear old mom and dad retired from providing the feast, I ended up in the foreign and ungraceful territory of being invited to other people’s homes for Thanksgiving. Always being grateful for an invitation which includes food, I would give proper thanks to the person providing it well before dinner was served. This was an early mistake. In the event that they asked me to openly give thanks at the dinner table, I was out of ammunition. This was especially true if I was the last in line to spew any unoriginal appreciation. Someone before me had invariably already given props to God and Jesus, their dying Grandmother, their children, their friends, their health, their spouse, their disease in remission, their neighbors, their newfound sobriety, or their ability to vaporize themselves exactly when it’s time to help with the dishes. Can’t we just have a moment of silence instead? I know what I’m thankful for, and I don’t give a damn what the guy next to me thinks about what I’m thankful for that particular year. It’s really none of his business. And, I sure as hell don’t give a yankee dime about his moment of thankfulness. Now, add holding my neighbor’s sweaty hand during this fifteen minute unceremoniously pious nightmare. Blahhh. As a good Thanksgiving guest and soldier, I would suck it up and participate for the host, but I didnt’t have to like it, and I probably wouldn’t return. Or, should I say, won’t be invited back, after someone recognizes my eyes rolling or an accidental gasp of misery.

Don’t get me wrong. I am wildly fortunate, and my list of gratefulness could seriously go on, and on, and on, until the dinner gets cold. I’ve also given my traditionally required share of toasts at weddings which went about as well as a Donald Trump eulogy at a Muslim’s funeral. Once, in my early twenties in Reno, Nevada, I attempted to say Grace after several shots of tequila and apparently passed out before finishing. Therefore, people should be thankful I don’t wish to speak publicly.

My wife and I have hosted Thanksgiving a few times, and if someone wanted to pray or give thanks, we let them do it out on the deck with the dogs. I am completely joking. We have never hosted Thanksgiving. Ok, we have, and I have always encouraged someone, besides me, to say grace before the display of gluttony begins. So, in truth, I’m not that big of a T-Day curmudgeon.

This year, my wife and I will be cooking at home by ourselves with the rest of our family: two dogs and two cats. For that, I am thankful. (For the dogs anyway!) Since my wife has to be back to work at the Sheet Metal Manufacturing Plant by five o’clock, I’ll be doing the dishes. For that, she is thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Sometimes, It’s the Worst of Times

Posted on November 20, 2015 by Ben Gannon

For those of us who don’t murder others out of spite, religion or politics, I applaud you. Why can’t it be that easy?

In general, I’m opposed to murder, and don’t wish this piece to shape anyone’s, or my lack of knowledge, regarding the tensions between Sunni, Shiite, Sundried, and Sunnyside up Muslims. I simply don’t understand these religious gangs of the Middle East. That’s the only way I can describe them.

I know as much about politics as George W. Bush, therefore, I disqualify myself from competing in debates I wisely avoid. I simply don’t, or don’t choose to, understand.

After watching the news for several hours last weekend regarding the terrorism in France, I thought it may be prudent to research why people were dying in Paris. Watching cartoons, similar to what I viewed as a child in my School House Rock days, introducing me to The “Bill of Rights” (I’m just a Bill”), I remained dumbfounded. I then watched a documentary about the Crips and Bloods. That was enlightening. As far as I am concerned, the extremists in the Middle East, or their corporate sponsors, are just a group of gangs pushing, shoving, stabbing or shooting those who don’t agree with their views.

While viewing the bloodbath in France on television, my wife and I spoke to one another as is if we were the most fortunate people on earth. In essence, we are. This is our great fortune. In the morning, we open the refrigerator and wonder what’s in it. Sometimes, when a fuse blows, we replace it. If we think a twelve pound turkey isn’t enough for Thanskgiving hangover sandwiches, I order a fourteen pound organic one pleasing both the turkey and my wife. When I need a haircut, I stumble across some money and force myself to get one. Unless I am at a wedding, I don’t dance. I don’t sing unless I am drunk. I don’t play scrabble unless it’s a rainy day, and it has to be with my wife or a great friend. Rarely, I wear pants. I don’t own or carry a gun. I hope and pray my neighbors leave me alone with my Louisville Slugger. It’s that easy. I enjoy, with my wife, and some dogs and cats, a good meal, followed by a repeat episode of Seinfeld before going to bed when baseball is out of season. Sometimes, those are the best of times.

The Raffle

Posted on October 13, 2015 by Ben Gannon

Every parent should know that a one dollar raffle ticket is all it takes to destroy a boy’s dream. They should teach this at the Juilliard or Dr. Suess School of Proper Parenting.

With the National Football season in full swing, and living in Seattle with the “12th Man”, it’s an exciting time for everyone in this city and throughout the State of Washington.

I’ll enter our neighborhood supermarket on Sunday mornings before the Seattle Seahawks game and be the only person present without a jersey. I’m not a member of the “12th Man” brother and sisterhood, consisting of rabidly loyal Seahawks’ fans, but I do watch and root for the team each week. For those loyal twelves, when they win, there is celebration. After a loss, I witness adults crying.

Returning to a stable home in Seattle, when the Seahawks win, I smile, and look forward to the next game. When they lose, I simply say, “Oh, what the hell”, happily listen to my wife spew some profanity laced professional athletic hatred for about five minutes, and then we look forward to next week’s game. You see, back in the late seventies, when I was six years old, I was thee “12th Man”. It was at that same age when my extreme, or extremely ridiculous, loyalty came to a tearful halt.

I was the emotionally unstable fan at that age who would, after a Seahawk’s loss, find a room, hide in it, and let those pathetic tears fly like the weak birds I witnessed being crushed by the opposing team. Try living with that when you have two older brothers, or rather, hyenas, licking their already cynical chops, waiting to verbally pounce upon me after exiting the room. My red eyes couldn’t hide the fact that I was, most certainly, the “baby” of the family. Every once in a while, remaining close to those brothers, I am reminded of those days, and we all laugh. However, crying was not the reason I eventually gave up on the Seahawks. It was the raffle.

At age six, I spent a great deal of time with only my mother at home. Being the youngest child, all my siblings had more pressing obligations at school than a boy in kindergarten. When inside, the doorbell would ring each day several times. It was usually the Milkman, Avon Lady, Girl Scouts, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The Milkman was the only one I appreciated because I could persuade mom into purchasing a half gallon of ice cream to go with the fifteen gallons of milk required to fill up a family of thirteen.

One day, someone mysterious showed up to our doorstep with a raffle ticket in his hand. Being the only man, or, boy, in the house, I kept a close eye and open ear when mother would open the door. Listening to their brief conversation, he seemed to be a nice fellow only asking for one dollar in exchange for two free tickets to a Seattle Seahawk game as well as an all expense paid stay at Seattle’s luxurious Westin Hotel, brunch included. I didn’t have to look in mom’s purse before I knew she had a dollar in it. Before the salesman could file his taxes, I talked my mother into buying one of these tickets. For an ignorant youth, that raffle ticket meant only one thing: Free tickets to a Seattle Seahawks game and staying at the Westin Hotel with all the players. Proudly, at the age of six, I knew what a ticket was, but sadly, I didn’t know what a “raffle ticket” was.

Other than figuring out travel plans, when my mother handed over that dollar to our neighborly shyster, I felt assured a ticket to a National Football game in the famously loud and notorious ugly Kingdome. After the first week, I began bugging my mother about how long it would take before I had the tickets in my giddy paws. With a kind smile and positive, yet truthful, words, she properly explained what the raffle was, softly describing how there was a pretty solid chance someone else, equally deserving, might end up winning the raffle. Not giving up hope, she also encouraged me to write a letter to the Seahawk’s organization explaining, with great respect, why I was their biggest fan. That was easy. In my mind, I was. After a few calls, my mother provided me the official address to the public relations department of the Seahawks. I knocked this letter out in great detail, describing their best players, future Hall of Famer and wide receiver, Steve Largent, quarterback, and future Hall of Mediocrity, Jim Zorn, their charismatic kicker, Efron Herraha, and other players the public relations department probably didn’t recognize on the roster.

A month passed and the Seahawks never responded. Later, I remember looking at the ticket and noticing the date of the game had passed. It was official. It wasn’t a winning ticket. I understood, and when I showed it to my mother, she knew I was hurt, but I wasn’t crying. She made me feel as though there were better or worse things to cry about. Then, she gave me some butterscotch pudding. It was the last time I cried over a losing team.

Much Ado about Football (or nothing)

Posted on September 23, 2015 by Ben Gannon

I’m back in the fantasy football saddle again, and I am about to get bucked off only two weeks into the season, and it’s all my father’s fault.

The Fantasy Football League with which I’m currently participating does not require an entry fee. It’s just meant to be fun, friendly competition amongst some friends and family members on my wife’s side. Since both my wife and I have teams, we can share Sundays together watching modern day gladiators on television while I barbecue or cook a hearty Fall stew. No gambling, great entertainment, digestible food, and a loving family. Sounds like a stress free environment, right? Wrong. Although it’s a great league filled with terrific participants, there is only one thing keeping it from being perfect. Me. If this is where I strive for competitive excellence, I should seek therapy. When my fantasy team falters in some way, I find myself speaking to the television set with a volume causing our dogs to look at me and say, “You ok, Papa?” Who do I blame? My father.

Years ago, my father’s art of raising his voice at a television set, fruitlessly trying to manipulate football players’ brain patterns, created tension throughout a very large household. This trait being passed down to me is my only semi-legitmate excuse for acting like an immature ass in front of my wife and our confused animals while watching football. I only wish they understood. When I was growing up in a very large Irish/Catholic family (another excuse for just about anything stupid we’d do) we would watch the Notre Dame Fighting Irish football game every Saturday. Let me clarify. Dad would watch Notre Dame, and we would watch Dad. Watching him seemed to be more entertaining. Although our father didn’t really know, or claim to know, a great deal about gridiron strategy, he did know when a coach or player, especially the quarterback, would make a mental mistake. When they did, the cigarette he was smoking would fly out of his mouth just before the verbal tirade. They didn’t even wish to be on the ash end of his comments questioning the players’ and coaches’ levels of intelligence. Remarkably, he could get his point across without too much profanity, so it didn’t make anyone in the room too nervous. In fact, my brothers and I would try to keep from chuckling during his outbursts.

Without knowing the X’s and O’s of football, my father was all about clock management. “Why are you running out of bounds when you need to keep the clock running? That running back needs to have his ass kicked up between his shoulder blades.” Or, “Ahhhhhh………why pass the ball when you need to keep the clock running? This quarterback doesn’t need his head examined, he needs a lobotomy.” Or, “If they show the coach’s wife in the stands one more time looking nervous, I’ll fly to South Bend and give her a reason to look nervous.” That last one was probably made up, because my father wasn’t a violent man. And, although he liked going to Vegas or Reno once every few years, he wasn’t much of a gambler, so I know he didn’t have cash on the game. This is why I questioned why he took it so seriously, and I have to question myself at the same time, because it’s simply ridiculous.

My brothers, Tom, Greg and I would root for Notre Dame, but mostly just because it would keep dad in a good mood. Other than that, we didn’t really care. We were preoccupied with the sweet sizzling smell of mom’s Saturday night burgers and getting a kick out of counting how many cigarettes dad would polish off during a stressful ND loss. We must have second hand smoked two packs a Saturday back then. Ahh…. when smoking was funny. Those were the days. Thank goodness he wasn’t a big drinker.

On the contrary, one of the wonderful traits my father passed down to me is the art of forgetting very quickly the meaningless loss with which you weren’t even a participant. Even after a Notre Dame loss, when Dad’s cigarette was replaced with one of our mom’s burgers, all was well. And, similarly, after the bowl of piping hot stew and warm french bread is placed in front of me after a stressful day of watching this terrific sport, I develop fantasy football amnesia.

Luckily for me, when my wife catches me uttering something sounding like I belong in a straight jacket during these fantasy football Sundays, a few minutes later, I’ll catch her doing the same, and we can both laugh. She’ll never admit it, but I think she takes it more seriously than I do.

Garbage

Posted on September 8, 2015 by Ben Gannon

Every Tuesday, much like our dogs, I wake up with a purpose. I take the garbage out and expect someone with a driver’s license to pick it up on said day. It’s only once a week, and it’s not so much for my wife to ask of me. She’s a peach. They forgot to pick it up this week.

Two large dogs, two cats, coupled with a bunch of cooking, creates a bunch of garbage. That’s why we pay people to pick garbage up on a weekly basis. “People” meaning GARBAGE MEN OR WOMEN! Get used to that title. I used to deliver ice and I had to get used to the phrase in mid July during one hundred and something degree temperatures, “Pretty cool job, huh, Iceman?” “F you.” That’s when I decided to get a college degree. It’s also the beginning of a bad joke and an angry man.

Yard waste, recycling, and God forbid I write it, “Garbage”is the Holy Trinity of the men or women of the Union who decide when, where, and how they dispose of it. They control our waste. Their power is undeniable and unforgiving. I spend so much time placing consumables and their ugly cousins in different baskets, I forget to tell my wife how much I love her when she leaves to go shopping. The basket happy bastards, after dictating the day, minute, hour, or month they may drop by to pick things up, laugh when you are unhappy with their service. Hold on. I just received a very nice message from my wife proclaiming her husband is not an A hole.

She is the peach in my basket. Done.

Swinging like a wild man,

Ben Gannon

Jackdog

Posted on September 6, 2015 by Ben Gannon

My step dog, Jack, just turned 14 today, and his tail is still waging. So is his mouth. His mother, my wife, has treated this dog with respect, kindness, and the proper diet: Table scraps and gourmet cupcakes.

Jack is cute, friendly, thoughtful, has a terrific sense of humor, yet maintains discipline within the boundaries of our property with respect to the squirrels. He is also overweight. We don’t know why.

Our veterinarian lectures us about Jack’s weight. He also can’t believe how fat, old yet healthy he is. Our vet also tells us to never feed him table scraps. Before people judge us, and by the way, we don’t give a crap if you do, I would like to define our “table scraps”: These are Jack’s table scraps.

Grilled Pork Tenderloin Medallions drizzled with a balsamic glaze accompanied with Sauteed Mushrooms and Garlic Toast. It’s His go to meal.

Rainbow Trout lightly dusted with seasoned Snoqualmie Falls pancake mix, crispy fried in olive oil with Steamed Cauliflower and Broccoli.

“We can never smell it” Grilled Sockeye Salmon over hickory coals and garlic asparagus. Jackdog pisses outside.

Chicken Parmesan with Vine Ripened Tomatoes stolen from neighbor’s garden to create a bowl full of Basil Marinara.

The Ridiculous Rueben: St. Patrick’s Day is the only day Jack requests the most expensive corned beef, cabbage, and cheese. This comes with toasted Rye and a special sauce. Complimentary spilled beer on the side.

Cajun Catfish fry with Caramelized Onions. (Mardi Gras comes more than once a year for our Jackdog.)

Grilled Halibut with Lemon Basil Vinaigrette and Roasted Brussels Sprouts. (Jackdog likes this with a cheap white wine.)

Roasted Chicken with Rosemary and Buttery Brown Sugar Butternut Squash.

Backyard Marshall Burger: Look it up. It’s posted on my blog.

Grilled Brats with caramelized onions, sauteed mushrooms and peppers. (Jackdog loves this while watching baseball or football. He’s a great admirer of both sports, and I’ve never witnessed him spill a beer.)

Jackdog’s Favorite: Ribeye Steak. No sides.

One might think my cooking must be dreadful if such culinary delights become scraps. Quite the contrary. I make enough for five. We have another large dog as well. I also save the fifth helping for myself. Piss on the cats. They can eat rats.

Happy Birthday, Jackdog. Keep waging.

Swing Like a Wild Man

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