My dog, Ron Howard, had his first birthday the other day. Unfortunately, Las Vegas odds-makers give him less than a 50-50 chance of reaching birthday number two. His name isn't really Ron Howard. We call him "Opie." He is a boxer-retriever mix (a.k.a.
The holiday season arrives early and stays late, like a boorish and inconsiderate uncle who hangs around until the last minute, picking at the scraps of a decimated party buffet.
I should know - I'm that uncle.
I have always been a poor excuse for a hunter. Growing up in northern Minnesota, this is not a good thing. It's akin to being a member of the Andretti racing family and not knowing how to drive a stick shift.