A Doggie’s Christmas Past

Buddy's Christmas Visitor

            JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS, WOOF, WOOF, WOOF, WOOF …. Is my human mom’s way of singing that Christmas song. The carol doesn’t sound like that on her tapes or on the radio. Mom likes to play Christmas music when she bakes or decorates the tree.

            It was my sixth or seventh year at the farm where I live with my human family. My mom decorates me too! I’m kind of into the holiday routine, and have learned to take the jingle bell that she attaches to my collar in stride. Soon after Thanksgiving I ring like the proverbial belled cat until the New Year. I try to humor Mom by woofing along with her rendition of Jingle Bells. It makes her happy, and I usually get a treat for my participation.

            It began to snow the week before Santa’s expected arrival. The storm was so bad that the horses didn’t go out that day, and the barn cats didn’t budge from their warm spots in the hayloft. I took up my position as official cookie tester. Mom is a great cook, but always managed to break a few cookies, which she gave to me. She would ask me, “What do you think, Bud?” I would bark enthusiastically, and she would give me another taste.

            Dad put on his snowsuit, snagged a handful of cookies and went out to clear the walks and drive. I tagged along. I love the snow. While dad was plowing the drive and a path back to the barn; I rolled in the snow and dove into the drifts. We had finished, and Dad was putting the tractor back in the garage attached to the horse barn when Patty pulled into the drive. We helped her bring in her luggage and gifts. I sniffed each one perhaps one of the wrapped packages was for me.

            Both of my human parents were relieved that their daughter had made it safely; she’d traveled from a place called Virginia. The weather was getting worse. It was snowing harder, and the wind was blowing. The lights flickered a few times, so the lanterns and flashlights were collected. Dad went out to give the horses hay and water. He also went into the shed to check something called a generator. I visited with each of the horses, and then followed him out.

            While he was working in the shed, I heard a strange rumble followed by a huge flash of light. I trotted up to the front of the house to check it out. Dad must have heard it too; he followed me up to the drive. I saw a hole in a tall drift near the road, I was on my way to investigate when a huge truck with flashing lights roared down the street pushing snow to the edge and into the driveways.  Smack, Crack, down went the mailbox and news box. Dad used a few words that will probably move him to Santa’s naughty list. I barked a few nasty words of my own; that contraption nearly buried me!

            While I was telling that snowplow a thing or two, I heard a faint call for help. I began to dig in the drift where the noise was coming from. Dad came over to see what I was doing. He helped me dig. We found a half frozen puppy! He was difficult to locate. The more he wiggled the deeper he went into the pile of snow, and the little guy was white as the snow.

            I thought that I detected a movement, so I plunged my head into the expanded opening. The small snow tunnel began to collapse around my ears, as I desperately grabbed for a squirmy ball of fur. Not very gently, I hauled that pup out of the bank, and fell backward onto the cleared portion of the drive. Dad picked up the shivering refugee and carried him into the house.

            The puppies cry for help brought back a cold winter night from long ago when I and the rest of my litter were tied in a burlap bag and tossed into a dumpster, but that is a tale for another time. Suffice to say that I have abandonment issues, and for years I have enjoyed being the only canine on the farm. I drive off stray dogs and cats that don’t belong here. All in all, I am not a very hospitable fellow. Maybe, it was the Christmas Spirit that made me save that puppy and share my home and family with him.

            The fuss that my family made over little Chris had me rethinking my heroics. Mom and Dad decided that the puppy must belong to a neighbor. Chris was the name on the little gold tag attached to his red collar. He was only about two months of age, and sure did a lot of tail wagging. He also figured out the cookie begging routine in the blink of an eye. He also barked out Jingle Bells in a harmony that I was unable to accomplish. I sure hope that Mom and Dad had some luck locating his owners.

            Day Two of the Chris invasion: Mom brought home some puppy chow and a set of red bowls. Patty got a doggie coat to fit Chris that looked a lot like the suit that Santa wore on many of the cards that Mom hung up every year. They even got him a red and white doggie bed. My eyes were beginning to take on a green cast. You bet, I was a bit envious of all the hoopla over our guest.

            Chris wasn’t in any danger of getting lost in the snow with his bright red coat and silly Santa hat. At least he had the dignity to refuse to wear the little black booties. He shadowed me everywhere; I mean, he was in jeopardy of getting watered when I went out to make yellow spots in the snow. I introduced him to each of my equine charges, and he wasn’t the least intimidated by their size. He licked each muzzle as it bent down to sniff and nuzzle him. The barn cats also treated him like one of them; they purred and rubbed against him. What the heck? This wasn’t normal doggie behavior.

            Not a soul in the surrounding area had lost a Labrador puppy, and it became apparent that Chris would be with us for a while. He didn’t make use of his new bowls, but preferred to mooch from mine. He drug his little bed under the tree. There amid all the wrapped gifts he would take naps. Of course all my humans thought that presented a great photo op. What they didn’t know was that at night he snuggled up to me on the big quilt that Mom had put down for me. I sighed and consoled myself with the thought that Chris would perhaps go back to Virginia with Patty. She sure seemed to like him.

            Day five arrived, and the sun warmed the air. Patty decided to take us on an outing that included a walk in a nearby park. We ended up at the pet store in town where we got our pictures taken with Santa. Chris whispered that the man in the red suit was only a stand in for the real Santa. I was about to ask him how he knew that tidbit when a big drooling dog interrupted.

            “Hey little sissy dog. How do you know he isn’t the real Santa? It’s not like you know the guy.”

            I took in his bowed legs, muscular build, and belligerent attitude, and hoped that Chris would just stay in the seat of the shopping cart where Patty had placed him as we left the Santa photo session. “Yes, Bruiser, I do know Santa.” That did it. The Bulldog got his back up over Chris’ claim.

            “Bull farts! You don’t know Santa, and little liars go on the naughty list.” He sneezed, licked his drooling choppers, and growled at the little Santa clad puppy in the cart. “And how do you know my name?”

            Chris cocked his head. “Would you believe that I am able to read your name tag?”

            “No. I don’t believe you can read. You probably heard my human say my name.”

            Chris wagged his tail and then wished Bruiser a Merry Christmas. I was grateful that it all ended peacefully, and I didn’t have to take on Bruiser to keep Chris from becoming his afternoon snack. I kept my questions to myself until we were safely away from any other eavesdroppers. “Okay, Chris, how did you know Bruiser’s name?”

            “I know every dog’s name. Those who are in shelters, those that live on the streets, those who are abused, and those who are lucky to have good homes with people who love them. You have a lot to be thankful Buddy.”

            “How can a little puppy, like you, know that?”

            “It is my job, but I’m only an apprentice. My dad knows the name of every animal in the world.”

            I got out of the car at home, made yellow puddles, and went to visit with Dad who was working in the barn. I ignored the puppy’s boast, and chalked it up to a youngster’s imagination, but how did he know the other dog’s name? I was there and Bruiser’s human never once spoke his name. I sidled up to Dad for a scratch between my ears and a reassuring pat.

            Our human family had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner that evening. Mom always makes extra meatballs for me, and I was drooling almost as badly as the skeptical bulldog that we’d met that afternoon. Great! In addition to being a bottomless cookie pit, Chris was inhaling my meatballs. “I held on to my temper and only growled a little. Mom to the rescue; she gave me a few more meatballs from her plate. I guess the meatballs didn’t agree with his tummy. Chris started tooting from the back end and leaving a trail of foul smelling air behind him. I was hoping that he got over the results of his gluttony before we bedded down for the night.

            December twenty-fourth started out like most days on the farm. We got up early and Chrisand I played in the new snow that had fallen overnight. The horses went out while Dad cleaned their stalls. I chased and barked at them as they bucked and played in the snow. Chris sat on the drive near the barn and watched me. “Come and play Chris!” I barked.

            “Sorry, Buddy, but I have to keep a watch.”

            I stopped my play, walked over to where he sat, and asked, “What are you watching for?”

            “I’m keeping a lookout for my ride home.” I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to crush his hopes that his previous human would come to claim him.

            Dad was returning to the house, and we tagged along with him. “Hey, Chris, why don’t we go try to talk Mom into giving us a cookie or two?”

            He wagged his tale and his eyes twinkled with anticipation. “Christmas Cookies are my favorite treat in the world!”

            Things began to take on a different spin after lunch. Dad secured the horses in their stalls, and gave them hay. Mom decorated a huge tray of cookies, wrapped them up, and put several containers of food into boxes that were loaded into the car.

            Early that evening, my human family deserted us. Before they departed Mom filled our bowls, and Dad told me to guard the house.

            Chris barked a goodbye, and Patty stopped to pet him. “Now you be a good puppy and listen to Buddy while we are gone.”

            We ate a little out of our bowls—I should say my bowl. Chris still preferred to share my bowl than to eat out of his own.  Next we wandered from room to room patrolling the house. It seemed that my family had left eons ago, and I missed them. I walked over to my quilt on the floor, then looked over my shoulder to the inviting couch. The sofa won out, and I curled up on the soft cushions near the fireplace. I suppose Chris was worried that I was doing something naughty.

            “Buddy, should you be doing that on Christmas Eve? I mean Santa hasn’t arrived, yet. You don’t want to get bumped to the naught list, at the last minute.”

            He sounded distressed. The kid sure took this Santa thing to heart. “It’s okay, Chris, I do this whenever I have to guard the house. I can see all three entries from here.” That little white fib seemed to placate him, and he sat there for hours gazing into the fireplace. He was still sitting there when our family returned.

            Dad went out to give the horses their 10PM feed. We tagged along to decorate the snow. Chris kept stopping to scan the sky, the rooftops, and the drive. “Are you still looking for Santa?” I asked.

            “I thought he would be here by now to take me home.” He sounded so disappointed.

            “Well, perhaps Santa gave you a new home when you arrived here. This is a good place, and you can stay here with us—aah, with me.”

            “Really? You would share your home and family with me? I had heard that you didn’t like interlopers.”

            I was a bit embarrassed to have my scrooge like behavior pointed out to me by this youngster. I yawned closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. Chris was still staring into the fireplace when I dozed off.

            Christmas morning I woke and stretched. That is when I realized that Chris wasn’t sleeping next to me. I checked his doggie bed under the tree. It was gone! I trotted over to my food bowls, and his little red bowls were nowhere to be seen. I ran down the hall checking on the sleeping humans. Everyone was accounted for. Patty was still here, so Chris didn’t go with her.

            Everyone searched for Chris, after I roused the household. “Okay, Chris, quit fooling around and come out here. Hiding on Christmas morning is really naughty.” I barked, scolded, and pleaded with him.

            Gift giving was put off until after chores and breakfast. Patty played Santa and handed out the gifts. Every one of us was worried about Chrisand we were kind of just going through the motions. I usually ripped open my gifts, but I just laid my head on the stack in front of me. Patty found it at the back of the tree-skirt, It was a package wrapped in red with white puppy sized paw prints on the paper. I opened the yummy smelling package. Inside were four gingerbread cookies that were shaped like puppies. There wasn’t a name on the package, but I knew it was for me from Chris. Then Pat found one more package under the tree, and she read the tag. “This last package is for Buddy from Santa Clause.”

            Okay, little Chris believed in Santa, but I knew better. Every year there were always a few packages from Santa or Mrs. Clause, and they always had the sent of my human family on them. Pat handed me the package, it smelled strange, and I refused to open it. Mom took it from me. She opened the package and read the note inside.

            Thank you all for taking care of Chris, and making him part of your family. He is a rambunctious puppy and fell from the sleigh while we were training some new reindeer. Buddy, the shiny new bell is to remind you of Chris and your new Christmas attitude.


            Patty said what we were all thinking. “Wow! The nametag makes sense, at last. It said ‘Chris’ and underneath ‘return to S.C.’ No wonder we couldn’t find his owners; he belonged to Santa.”

            I hope you liked my Christmas story.

            Merry Christmas!


Woof! Snow! Wow! Woof.

 I love the snow.

               Maybe because I was born during the month of February in a cold and windy place known as Illinois. The first two years of my life I bounced around between there and the farm in Medina, Ohio that became my permanent home. From my prospective, the deeper the snow drifts the better!

As you can see, I am equipped to play in the snow. I do, however, live in the house with my human parents. Mom limits my playtime in the frigid temperatures, so I try to make the most of it. Catching snowflakes on your tongue is a refreshing activity, as is stretching out in a big snowdrift to take a snooze. A short nap in the fluffy white stuff is called for after chasing my equine charges around the pasture to make sure they get their exercise.


My paws have a lot of hair around and between the pads, and they function much like a snowshoe. The down side is that when I go inside I have ice balls that need to be removed. Mom uses a warm blow dryer to melt the ice, and a fluffy towel to dry my thawed paws as well as any dampness from my coat. I could pull the ice balls out of my paws on my own, but I have to admit it takes a long time, and my paws get a little ouchy!


            This is Cali.


            She’s not enthused at all about the winter. She just goes out long enough to make yellow spots in the snow then hightails it back to the house. She doesn’t have much hair, and none at all on her feet!  She just sinks in the deep snow. Mom is talking about getting her a doggie coat. The doggie coats that I’ve seen look much like the blankets the horses wear during the winter months.


Woof! Different likes for different pups. I’d call her a sissy, but I’m a gentleman. Cali is a rescue dog, and has had some bad experiences, so I cut her some slack.

Our neighbor has one of those funny looking dogs—at least I think it is a dog—with the squished face.He gets carried most of the time even though he not only  has a doggie coat, but a matching  hat and boots. Last Monday, Christmas Eve, the poor little fellow was dressed up like Santa! Four days later,  he is still wearing the red suit and black booties. I can’t tell you his name because I don’t know it. He isn’t allowed to talk to us. I guess his owner is worried we might eat him or do something else terrible. She keeps him inside her house, and shovels a patch in the snow for him to attend to his business. She carries him out, waits for him to finish, then she picks him up and takes him back into the house. Well I guess it’s better than the poor dogs who don’t have anyone to love them, but I sure am glad I’m a farm dog that is too big to be carted around. The worst I have to put up with is my jingle bell that I have to wear for a couple of weeks every year. The trade off is that I get to test all the broken Christmas cookies as they come off the baking sheets. Am I a lucky dog, or what? This year I had to share some of the cookies with Cali.


Meet QT.

QT IMG_0180

She lives in the horse barn, and she stays inside where it is warm and dry when we have a heavy blanket of snow. Most of the time she is alone, but every winter she has some company for a few months. One or two cats move in for the winter to share her food, water, and find a cozy spot in the hayloft over the horse’s stalls.


HAPPY NEW YEAR, Woof, woof, meow! All the best to your family from ours.

I’ve been a little under the weather, but I promise to nag Mom into helping me with my blog more often.

Stop back and visit me in 2013.

WOOF! Bye for now,


Don’t Chase Black Cats with White Stripes!


            One of my favorite sports since coming to the farm is harassing the barn cats. It was easy in the beginning of my residence to get the cats to run. All I had to do was pounce and woof at them, and the chase was on. 

            Kittens are kind of dumb; they didn’t realize that I was eighty plus pounds of canine fury. The cat kids would waddle up to me rub on my legs making purring sounds, and I had to be careful where I set my paw down to keep from squishing them. They would cuddle up next to me while I was snoozing under a shade tree keeping watch over my equine charges. So, I became the kitten babysitter whenever the mother cat was out chasing field mice, sneaking up on birds, or catching frogs. Right! Mom was out playing and I was stuck with the kids.

            Well…the whole kitten sitting thing destroyed any intimidation factor I had with our barn cats. On occasion a stray cat would wander in and I could get a good chase going.

             Tom and I were on our way back to the house from feeding the horses their late night meal when I saw a black cat wandering though the front paddock. “Woof, scram, woof, you don’t belong here!” The chase was on, and as I got closer the strange white stripe and bushy tail became evident. The black cat lifted its bushy tail and sprayed me right in my face. “Eww yuck!” I rolled in the grass trying to rub off the smell.


            Water is made for drinking or for swimming, not for baths. I spent the night on the porch, and the first ting in the morning I was on the horse wash rack being scrubbed with a strange concoction, of soap, baking soda, peroxide and something the vet recommended that I had never encountered before. As much as I hate a bath, it did help with the odor on my coat—or so I was told. My sense of smell was all messed up! About to make a grab for the black cat, my mouth and nose got the brunt of the assault. Not much helped my breath, and everything tasted weird.

            Tom, along with some words I can’t repeat, told me not to chase skunks. Skunk? It looked like a cat to me. The long hair cats have bushy tails. “I mean give me a break you guys, I never saw a skunk before.” I defended my self to the taunts of “skunk breath” from the barn cats. 


            At a horse show five days later, I was sacking out in the tack stall that Tom and Jackie had set up the previous evening when a young Labrador Retriever came by for a visit. Not quite a year old, he was running around socializing. His long leash dragging behind him, he stepped through the door of the stall where I was tied. Tail wagging he came closer to introduce him self. I stood up to great him; he took one whiff of me, sneezed, turned around, and bolted down the aisle between the stall rows, yelling, “Run! I just saw the biggest skunk in the world!”

            How the heck did he know the skunk smell? Maybe he’d had a similar experience, but how humiliating for another dog to call me a skunk. Take it from me guys, stay away from those polecats. It can sure mess up a dog’s social life.


            Don’t forget to like me, and leave a comment. I need all the encouragement you have to offer. Dog biscuits are fine too!

See you next month.





Puppy Alert!!!




                        Sprawled out on the cool kitchen tiles with the ceiling fan creating a heavenly breeze on my tummy sleep eludes me. My doggie blog is fast approaching, and I still haven’t decided on a topic. I got up to get a drink, patrolled the house, and then stationed myself between the oscillating floor fan and the overhead.

Tom, my favorite family member let me out while he fed and watered my equine charges. The horses get their breakfast around seven every morning. On our way back in Tom grumbled, “It’s going to be a hot one today, Bud. The thermometer is already 85°! You are going to have to stay at home today.” I usually ride with him when he runs to the feed store, or to get hay. Bank runs are fun too! I get doggie treats at both places. Though I love to ride in the truck with my face hanging out the window sucking in the wind, it’s really uncomfortable when we have to stop on hot summer days,


That is when it came to me! The subject for my first blog would be the heat wave from a dog’s point of view.  Most dogs want to be with their human family, and we hate the home alone thing. I would whine, beg, and look pathetic hoping to weaken their resolve to leave me behind. My last ditch effort is to run to the big window in the living room that faces the drive to show my most dejected and heartbroken face.

Now that I am older, I know that staying at home in the heat is my humans way of protecting me, but I still don’t like it. One of my doggie friends, Maxine, almost died from heatstroke while waiting in a car for her owner to finish grocery shopping. Maxine, like me, loved to ride in the car.  Puppy Alert! Leave us at home, if you really love us.


            Lucky me, I am a country dog, Most of the time my paws tread on cushy grass, or the soft sand in the horse work arena. I love to run with the horses when they are working. If I get overheated, I take a dip in the river. Where I used to live my paws got fried on the sidewalks on the way to the field at the end of our street were I was allowed to run. Puppy Alert! When you can fry an egg on the concrete or asphalt let us walk on the grass, whenever you can.


Mom chose a puppy picture of me for this blog.  I used to visit the farm when I was little, and came to live here when I was two. My coat is long, and I have a thick undercoat that is great insulation. It protects me from the cold of winter, but also from the hot summer sun. My thick undercoat also protects me from, mosquitoes, dear flies, and more! I am half Golden Retriever and half German Shepard; I am a pretty hairy guy.  My friend Beau is a Golden, and he can’t spend much time outside. He was body clipped for the summer, and if he were in the sun long he would get sunburned. Puppy Alert! If you use clippers to shorten a long coat, don’t leave your doggie friend in the sun longer that it takes to water the tires and fertilize a spot in the lawn!


            Wow! Mom just put some ice cubes in my water bowl. I think I’ll go have a cool drink, and then stakeout a good spot in front of a fan, where I can keep an eye on things.


Stay safe everyone, and drink lots of water. This heat can’t last forever. Stop by and visit with me next month.

Bye for now!



Surviving the Alarm Clock and a Stressed Out Canine!

By Jackie Anton

            Mid April showers have the windshield wipers going double time. Tom, my husband, was booked on an early flight to Orlando, and I had just dropped him off at the Akron-Canton Airport.  Now, I am stuck in rush hour traffic, doing the orange barrel polka around Akron. Traffic is crawling, so there is plenty of time for me to worry about filling in the gaps that his absence will leave for the next two weeks.

By the time I pull in the drive at home, I have decided that I can handle this extra load for two weeks. Before I am able to exit the truck, impatient stomping and whinnies echo from the barn. It is past time to turn the horses out, and they are making sure that I don’t forget about them.

After turning my equine charges out and making sure that the water trough is full, I fill the cat’s water bowl and head to the house.

Opening the back door makes my heart thump wildly.  Ninety pounds of hairy canine exuberance almost sits me on my posterior. Buddy makes a beeline to the truck searching for his beloved master. He sulks for the remainder of the day. He doesn’t chase the horses as usual, but sticks close to me while I clean the stalls.  Every once in a while he gives me a woeful doggy look, as if asking what I had done with Tom?

One day down, thirteen to go.  That is if all went as planned and our daughter-in-law delivered our second grandchild on schedule. Grandpa was there to drive Wilma to work. Our son was concerned about her driving the forty-five minutes each way to the University of Central Florida. He was on a project assignment, for Florida University, working in the opposite end of the State. Grandpa to the rescue! He would be driving her to and from work, picking up Connor, our first grandchild, from daycare and generally helping out.

I set the clock for five am.  Maybe, if I got an early enough start, I would be able to get everything done. Take a deep breath, think positive, I coached myself, “ Maybe you will catch a spectacular sunrise?”  Not a morning person, habitually I read or work on ads late at night.  Quietness of those hours, except for occasional snoring, croaking frogs, and chirping of crickets, allow me to concentrate much better. At least a decade has gone by since I have had to set an alarm clock.

Five in the morning, sure that a calamity had struck, I wake with a start. My heart rate spiking, I keep slapping at the infernal clock radio. Not able to find the proper button, out of frustration, I reach down and pull the electric plug. Great! Now, I am going to have to reset it. Vaguely, a distant memory rises out of the morning fog that I used to, in self-defense, wake up before the alarm could scare the tar out of me.   Buddy was standing in the doorway cocking his head and looking at me like I was demented. Or, it could be that he was only trying to figure out the alien noise?  Once the alarm was quieted, he let out an indignant yawn followed by an elaborate stretching routine.

Oh! Lord it is only the fourth day! Panting, I stop to catch my breath, after lugging the third trashcan to the end of the drive.  Glancing around and admiring the budding trees, I notice how much the grass has grown. In resignation, I reschedule my plans for the day to mow the lawn. Mowing our six acres, and zigzagging around the abundant trees, takes a minimum of four hours, if you don’t forget to check the gas and then run out at least two hundred feet from the outbuilding that houses the tractor fuel.  This was shaping up to be a lousy day, and I was not enjoying the bright sunshine and mild weather. A U.S. Postal delivery was made while I was struggling with the lawn tractor.  Waving to our friendly Post Lady, I groaned, and then let out a string of very colorful words that I would not dare repeat in front of my grandchild. I had completely forgotten about the mail, it had gone unchecked since the day before he left. Our rural box was stuffed. One more thing, like mowing, filling the trucks and the fuel cans for the tractors, and taking out the trash, that I never bothered with, Tom always did that too!

Day five is off to a better start. Now, I am counting!  Feeling proud of myself for beating the alarm, I turn from disengaging it, and end up on the floor tangled up with a big furry dog that thinks I have invented a wonderful new game.  Since Buddy is Tom’s dog, more aptly he is Buddy’s person. Most of the time I play second fiddle, but with my husband away for several days Bud has decided to attach himself to me. He usually sleeps next to Tom, and I had not been expecting him to be right beside my bed when I woke.  I figure that the dog being insecure is doing his best to make sure that I didn’t disappear, also. He is the proverbial lost puppy.

Local weathermen are calling for rain showers over the next several days. So, I decide to reseed the front paddock, and take advantage of the promised warm spell. The projected rain will take care of watering it, not adding to my list of things that need to be done.  I sigh, knowing that this is the optimal time to tackle the project, and went in search of my work gloves.  It took me all day, more than twice the time that it usually took the two of us. Other than caring for the animals, I worked on that paddock from dawn until dark.

Well, I made it through. My heart is still beating, despite nearly jumping out of my throat whenever I over slept and the earsplitting alarm jarred me from a sound sleep. In addition I did not break my neck falling over an anxiety filled canine. However, those life alert commercials are looking better all the time, and I will keep them in mind if I ever have to repeat the past two weeks.

The above story was an assay that I did for an English Composition class April of 2010. I thought it was a good way to introduce our beloved Buddy. I am working on his story, and will include some of his exploits here.  Backyard Horse Tales readers met Buddy in Sox’s tale. Look for Buddy’s Blog on the 30th of each month.

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