The Bigfoot Stakeout

31 July 2026

1196

R. Linda:

Never in me born days did I think I'd be professionally assigned a Bigfoot story! Never, never, ever, but that's what happened, and I be still smarting from the whole idea of it. I tell ya! Is no man safe from the silliness that seems to permeate our society of late? I ask ya!

Unbeknownst to meself, I was not aware I lived in the village known for Bigfoot sightings in the entire State of New Hampshire. I was blissfully unaware until recently. Yeah, yeah, I noticed the yellow road signs to "Brake for Bigfoot," but I thought they were jokey things the locals put up to amuse passing tourists. Never in me life did I think they were serious. Imagine me surprise!

A town over, there is a small local breakfast joint where the locals go nearly every morn to gossip and eat chocolate-covered bacon (of all things), and one of the subjects they chatter on about is…you guessed it, Bigfoot! Well, seems the place was buzzing with this latest sighting in me own little village. 

"Ooh, the smell," a man said.

"Ay-yah, and the thumping inta the woods proves it's a weighty monstah!" Said another.

Well, somehow this talk got to the ears of me, Editor-in-Chief, one Cruella. She called me into her office and informed me that since me little hamlet has a reputation for Bigfoot sightings, I should "Go prove it's another guy in a gorilla suit."

I thought she was joking, but no, no, she was not. 

"I do NOT believe in Bigfoot," I stated to her, hoping to stand me ground on this.

"We need this debunked." Said she, standing hers.

"Do we? Do we really?" I half-whined, feeling defeat coming. 

Well, I won't bore you with a conversation you can probably guess at. I went back to me office and sat there staring at the wall for a while, wondering WHY. But I knew why; it was because of where I unfortunately lived. "Thank you, community of crazies," for this, I whispered many times over. Heaving a big sigh, I picked up me phone and started setting up interviews. Yup, I did. I felt like an idiot saying I was looking to interview such-and-such about Bigfoot sightings in the area, but I swallowed hard each time. By golly, I set those puppies up for 1. the retired game warden, 2. the teenager who's got a blurry selfie he's posted on the town FB page, and 3. (the best for last), the old lady who claims "Biggy" returned her garden rake. 

I drove home, and by noon I started me first of three interviews. I was done by 2. All these witnesses sounded sincere, and you can see they truly believed every word they uttered. And for me, every story was absurd. 

Knowing the interviews would not be enough, I rang up Cruella and volunteered to spend an evening in the woods just to see what happens and if "Biggy" would appear. SHE was all enthusiastic and laughing, which threw me for a loop, but I was more determined than ever to do this thing. 

I rang up Sam and convinced him with little effort, I might add, to spend the night in the woods investigating (that word gets Sam every time) Bigfoot. 

Being me analytical self, I overprepared. I knew it when I was gathering all the things I told Sam we needed (this was more to keep Sam enthused). Why not? We spent all that money on ghost hunting equipment when all we needed was a potato (see Story #1195 Ghost Hunting With Sam July 29, 2026).

We had the thermal camera, a digital audio recorder, wildlife guidelines (Sam's contribution), topographic maps (also Sam's), GPS, emergency radio, bear spray, and enough snacks for a weekend (thanks to Mam). Sam and Mam together had supplied marshmallows (because it was said "Biggy" likes those), a lawn chair (for who, I don't know), binoculars, and a six-foot cardboard cutout of Bigfoot "to lure in the real one." This last was Sam's idea, which horrified me. What be wrong with him? 

Before we left me house, Sam said he had also read somewhere that Bigfoot likes peanut butter. Me Mam said she heard, "It's apples, but it could be bacon." Well, before long we accidentally set out with what you could construe as the world's strangest picnic fare.

Sam and I got out to a rail trail and followed that to where there were homemade signs that said things like: BIGFOOT AHEAD, TAKE CAUTION, and THIS WAY TO BIG FOOT (with a finger pointing in the direction you are to take). Well, we tramped into the woods just as the sun was starting to set. It was quiet, and the birds had stopped chirping, which gave me the heebie-jeebies. We were deep in the woods, off the trail, and I was wondering if we'd ever find our way back, but then I realised we had food for months!

Village idiots put up signs

We set up camp, and quietly chatted about this and that, everything but the reason we were there. I think Sam was as spooked as I was, and that's why we avoided the obvious subject. It was just as darkness fell that we heard something and turned around slowly, thinking IT was behind us. IT was rifling through one of the food bags, and when we looked, we found a raccoon family rifling through the marshmallows. Sam frightened them away, and we settled back in, wondering if lighting a fire would be a good idea; then we thought against it. We weren't sure what the fire rules were. 

"Be just our luck we start a forest fire," I had just finished saying when I looked at Sam for the joke laugh, but his eyes were bugging out of his head, looking over me shoulder. I slowly turned around, and we had a black bear in the marshmallows. This wasn't good. I slowly got hold of the bear spray and turned toward the bear. Maybe it knew what I was about to do, and I will say I was not thinking of what could happen, but it took the huge bag of marshmallows, grunted at us and left. 

"WOW!" Sam said, fear still in his eyes. "What if that thing comes back?"

"Oh wait a minute, THAT thing is less scary than Bigfoot, don't ya think?" I was incredulous that here we were comparing apples to oranges.

No sooner had we settled down than a doe traipsed through our little camp, disturbing nothing, just giving us a doe-eyed look like "You aren't supposed to be here." 

"I hope that's it with wildlife," Sam said. 

I was fitting meself into the lawn chair, thinking I'd had enough, but I had to wait this out, so I settled back and closed me eyes as Sam fiddled with the thermal camera. 

I heard it first. It sounded like someone screaming "Baaaaaaaaaa!" I jumped up as Sam looked around.

"WHAT IS THAT?" I shouted at Sam, who got the camera ready. 

"Turn on the audio," he directed at me, and I did. 

We both hunched down and listened to the unusual scream. He, camera ready, and I recording audio.

Suddenly, this thing broke into our camp and upset the two of us because it nearly trampled us. We were so flummoxed by the sudden break it took from the woods that we didn't quite know what it was, but it had a bad odour. 

"Wha…wha…what was it?" Sam asked me, desperation in his voice.

"I don't know!" 

He checked his camera but had a blurry image that told us it wasn't Bigfoot but might be a baby Bigfoot. It was hairy and beige, but we couldn't make it out. I didn't get to check the audio because, just as suddenly, we heard the cracking of twigs under a bigger foot than what had just run through our camp.

Try discerning what this is in the dark

"Oh God, it's Bigfoot's mother!" Sam cried.

Before either of us could stand up and run, a torch light flashed in our faces, and a man's gruff voice said, "What the hell?"

It was Sheriff Parker on the hunt for a loose goat! That's what trampled through our camp: a goat! Did we feel like jerks? Yes, we did.

We explained ourselves, and Sheriff Parker shook his head like we were morons and left us to find the loose goat, but not before warning us, "No fires." 

It wasn't 10 minutes later that we heard him shout, "GOT IT!" and then it got quiet again. Well, kind of. Nothing happened the entire night but that the two of us were chilled to the bone. We snacked on the snacks Mam packed for us, leaving hardly anything for Bigfoot. 

We were hardly awake, both of us grumbling about empty coffee thermoses, when we heard huge footsteps coming our way, branches snapping like twigs, and something enormous walking towards us through the morning mist. I froze; I am not afraid to admit it. This was different from everything else we had gone through. Sam stood just behind me, frozen as well, staring at the thing coming in the mist. It is huge, it is hairy, and it is…walking on four legs.

A very shaggy Highland cow, the last of the loose cows and the only Highland one, was making its way towards us. I started laughing; I couldn't help meself. But then, something else howled from the much deeper woods. It was impossibly loud; the cow bolted at the sound, every bird went silent, and we stood there frozen again.

"That wasn't a cow," Sam whispered.

I checked me recording, and nothing was there. It captured complete silence. No howl, no footsteps, no explanation. It didn't take us long to pack it up and get the heck out of there. We'd had enough.

Back in Boston, I wrote a perfectly sensible article explaining why most sightings are misidentifications. I submitted it to Cruella. I went back to me office as she was starting to look at it. I had Sam's photos of mostly a blurred goat, and then I noticed that when he got excited or, more accurately, scared, he took accidental selfies. I had to stop and look hard at one of them. I could see a dark figure standing between two trees. Just standing there, looking right into the camera. Neither of us noticed this at the time. I quietly closed the laptop.

"I don't get paid enough."

Sam's selfie with "Biggy"?

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Ghost Hunting With Sam

29 July2026

1195

R. Linda:

After Barney and his iPhone fiasco, Sam was more enthusiastic than ever about us becoming New England's #1 ghost-hunting team. Me mind was far removed from being that or any investigative team. All I wanted was the continuation of a peaceful summer. I didn't want to think about the chill of Fall, Halloween, spirits rising, and getting scared. 

No, I was about the veggies growing to luscious ripeness in Tonya's garden, the boyos mowing the lawn, and me in my hammy with me Arnold Palmer watching it all unfold without lifting a finger. Yes, bliss.

Now I had Sam coming to me, or more like texting me constantly, that he heard there is a ghost one town over, or there is some legend up in the mountains about strange goings-on and rumours galore of sightings of dead relatives here and there. 

I wanted to say, "Sam, get over yourself. WE are not ghost hunters. Barney proved that." But he'd only say, "But Gabe, we solved the mystery!"

Sam was becoming a fixture around the abode. He'd jump in if he saw something he could help with. Mam was taking a shine to him. She made him scones! Yes, scones. She brewed him tea, and they'd get together EVERY afternoon for tea and whatever Irish goodies she baked for Sam that I liked! I tell ya, me very own grey-haired, apple-cheeked Mam had adopted Sam. 

What was I to do? I'd lay there in the hammock watching this unfold on me deck. I wasn't invited. I'd watch the teacup lift to Sam's mouth, watched him savour the flavour, then the ultimate slap in the face: he'd pick up a scone dripping in honey butter and take a delicate bite, and "ummm and ahhh" sounds as he swayed from side to side in food harmony, me Mam looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. Such satisfaction she was getting from all this.

Later, I'd go complain to her about her leaving me out. I'd be accused of acting like a big child, and since she has "so little joy in life," let her have her Sam teatime without the fuss of a child who had other things to do than wreck her Sam time.

YUP, that's basically what she said to ME, her son! Sam time. I'll Sam time him. So, like a Cheshire cat I lay in me hammy waiting for his arrival. As soon as I saw him, I called over to him, and as he stood looking down at me relaxing self, I said, "Sammy, me man, I have given your proposal some deep thought, and yes, I think we'd make a great ghost hunting team."

"You do?" His smile was wider than his face.

"I do." I grinned back. "Only one thing: we have to get the equipment we'll need ASAP. I heard the Cunninghams have something going on at their lake house, and WE could investigate it. Just think we swim, we enjoy the cabin by day, and ghost hunt it at night."

His face lit up like it was Christmas. He nodded enthusiastically, and I knew I had him hooked.

I made arrangements with the Cunninghams to go to their cabin for the middle of the week. We'd find whatever was going on up there and report back. They were grateful. Told me they had arrived to see all the lights on, but as soon as they pulled in, the lights went out. They go in; no one is there, and nothing is touched. I thought to meself it sounded like an electrical problem, so easy-peasy. Of course, I didn't tell them OR Sam that. Kept it to meself.

Sam was so excited that he ran up to Mam and told her what we were going to do and how exciting it would be. She looked amused. Too amused. 

"Den ye'll be needin' a few tings, ye will." She said coyly.

"Oh, we do: a magnetometer, a ghost sensor machine, infra-red photography- yeah, we need to get those things," Sam addressed me.

"Nah, ye need sometings I haf around 'ere. Hold on." And she ran off to get these things we needed.

First off, she gave us a horseshoe for luck, a rosary to fend off any negative spirits, salt so we could draw a circle around ourselves if the spirits came in force to get us, Holy water that she just happened to have so we could dose any demons away if need be, and a potato, "jus' in case." None of this was the ghost hunting gadgets that Sam nor I had even considered.

Between Sam and me, we got the electronics we thought we needed, and Mam made sure we took everything she had given us. We drove off to the Cunningham retreat up by Lake Sunapee, arriving at dusk. The cabin was rustic but well-kept, with a lakefront view. There was nothing close by but pine trees everywhere. 

We meticulously set up the electronics, and we detected notta. BUT while we were discussing what to do next, the potato started rolling off the kitchen counter onto the floor. It rolled all the way to the door, which was something like 10 feet away. I thought it was odd that it didn't fall with that much force; it would roll that far. Sam voiced that as well, and we looked at each other. 

He went and got it and put it back on the floor by the cafe chairs, and it started rolling again. 

"Gabe, you notice there is a slight uphill to this floor, and that potato is rolling uphill, not down?"

Yes, the floor was warped enough to be noticeable. We both were told to mind the warp so we wouldn't trip. So we did know about that, but why the potato rolled up we had no idea. Sam did it again, and once more the potato went uphill to the door frame.

I said quietly, more to meself, but Sam nodded on hearing me say, "Well … that's not encouraging."

Neither of us slept well that night. I heard Sam get up a few times, and the sound of a rolling potato started to spook me out, but I stayed where I was. 

The next morning Sam had it figured out. 

"Look, Gabe," he said, holding the potato out to me to take, "It's a lumpy potato and has an uneven weight spread. The heavy side shifts lower and doesn't touch the floor; the outer shape makes it unbalanced enough that it rolls uphill, not downhill."

I was not buying it, but whatever. I'd think about that though. He might have a point about his centre-of-mass calculation. 

Nothing happened around the cabin during the day, and we did take the Cunningham sailboat out. They offered, so we took them up on it and had a rather enjoyable time on the lake. It was around 4 when we returned to the cabin; everything was in order, even Sam, putting the potato on the floor one more time to watch it go uphill. We decided to go to a restaurant in Kearsage and discuss the potato phenomenon. 

Upon our return, all the lights in the cabin were ablaze. 

"Did you leave the lights on?" Sam asked me.

"No, not one; it was still light out, and I didn't think about it," I said.

"I didn't either." 

We didn't drive up the driveway; we were still on the road, and I had an idea. I drove down a ways from the cabin where no one could see us.

"Listen, Sam. We didn't leave anything in the house that would give anyone a reason to know we were staying. Like I suggested, if someone was actually in the house before we arrived, we had to leave it just as we found it. That meant suitcases in the boot of me car, and we take all our stuff every time we go out."

"Ok. Got you so far, but hey, we left the potato."

"We did leave the potato." I thought about that, then shrugged it off. Who'd notice a lone lumpy potato? "Now, if someone uses that cabin to sleep in overnight, they know pretty much when the Cunninghams are coming for a stay and when they're not. This is the middle of the week, so like I said before we left, if it's a person fooling with the lights, they won't expect us."

"But Gabe, you are forgetting that when we arrived yesterday, there were no lights on."

"Yes, because we arrived at dusk and if someone was going to the cabin, they'd see the car and our lights. Today we went sailing, but before we went to dinner we took everything we brought with us, except the potato, so it looked like we left."

"Ahhh, gotcha."

"So, now whoever will feel free to move back in."

"If only that lumpy potato could talk." Sam reflected. 

We snuck up to the cabin and saw someone inside through the window. We looked at each other and smiled.

"I'm not afraid of no ghosts," he whispered with a chuckle.

"Looks like a local without a home, you reckon?" I asked him.

"Um, could be. Whoever he is, he's just finished eating out of a can, and he put that in his knapsack with the spoon." 

I signalled Sam to follow me, and we crept up the back steps. I started to open the screen door, but it creaked, giving the intruder the impression that he had company. He picked up his knapsack and bolted to the front door, with us coming in the back. The only problem he had was that he squarely stepped on the potato Sam had left in the middle of the floor where it had rolled to a stop. His foot shot forward, and he landed with a loud thump on his back, the knapsack going flying. 

Sam jumped on him while I started laughing too hard to help. It was that damn ghost hunting potato; that's what had me. When I was able to help Sam get the man in a chair, I called the local constabulary, and that was the end of our ghost hunting.

Back home, Mam asked us this, "Well, did ye use everythin' I packed fer ye?"

"We did not." I said smugly, "The holy water stayed corked. We never had to draw a salt circle... "

"Thank the Fates for that," Sam said, relief in his voice.

"We didn't touch the rosary. But the potato …. that potato caught the ghost."

"It worked better than the four hundred dollars' worth of electronics." Sam offered.

Mam nodded as though she'd known all along.

"I tole ye. Jus' in case."

"And why is that?" I foolishly asked.

"Because Irish potatoes have been dealin' wit spirits fer generations."

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Of Loose Cattle And A Strange Light

27 July 2026

1194

R. Linda:

I tell ya, I live with a superstitious lot in our little patch of New England. There was a fire and a barn burnt down, but the cattle all got away (a good thing). They absconded into the dense woods, and no one could find them for weeks. Suddenly one or two were spotted and rounded up. That left a half dozen or so unaccounted for. Then they all appeared sans one, on a back road, and no one had any clue how to round these cows up. 

They put a cattle loader by the edge of the woods, got a trough and feed bin, and they've been feeding the cattle, who, at the approach of a human, they all moo to the woods, coming out when said humans are no longer visible. 

This is the setup; no wonder the cattle aren't interested. Maybe put the food IN the loader, not outside.

Are there no cowboys in New Hampshire? I know they drive through picking up livestock for transport, so why can't the owners of said loose cattle get a few of these professional cattle wranglers to round up said cows on the run? I don't know, but this situation is going to stay this way until someone finds a way to wrangle cattle.

So after weeks of false sightings of cattle until they made themselves known, people were hiking, some with dogs, some riding the trails on horseback (I'd love to see an English riding equestrian wrangling cattle); this whole cattle thing took on a spooky feel. 

People wondered whether they were still alive or if the coyotes or bobcats had got them. There were a lot of discussions at the Genny where folks said they thought they saw "somethin' in the woods yonder." That is, until the spook light appeared in the forest. Yes, this phenomenon put the lost cow talk on the back burner; it did. 

It seems a strange light was appearing in the woods almost every night. How do we know this? Because the villagers were keeping a quiet vigil for cows, when a light suddenly appeared in the forest. Something that shouldn't be there. 

Rumours began to spread that cattle rustlers might have heard about the lost cows and were out stealing them. But the superstitious villagers outnumbered the cattle-theory villagers and said, "Oh, no. That ain't no cattle stealers, it ain't. That's a ghost."

Suddenly July became October. There was a distinct Halloween atmosphere about our tiny little village. 

The talk at the Genny wasn't about cattle anymore; it was about old legends walking the woods looking for: a. Their head, b. Their house, c. Their family, d. Their wallet. Yes, that last one put your jaw on the floor with a WHAT, banging around in your brain. 

We were at the Genny when me new best bud, Sam, volunteered ME to investigate since he decided me title is Investigative Journalist. New to me. And where to investigate? You got it, that back road behind me house where all sorts of strange stuff happens and I don't go there because of that strange stuff. 

"Sam, the light is up by the highway, not in the back of me abode." I corrected. 

"Well, maybe the cattle are back there." He lamely said.

"Nevah mind cattle, we are chasin' a ghost." Old Albert said, annoyance in his voice at Sam.

I had little choice but to get me butt out on the "highway," which is not what you think. It's a narrow lane with two yellow stripes down the middle. This is rural New Hampshire, not Boston.

So, reluctantly, I get meself out there WITH Sam, since this was his bright idea. For three nights we waited, and nothing happened. Then on the last night there was the light! We saw it at the same time, and like two old ladies, we grabbed each other and whispered excitedly, "Do you see it?"

We were primed for a floaty human form in a white sheet to slowly approach us, with a bright light around it. We let go of each other, embarrassed that we had reacted as we did, but we were far from feeling relaxed and confident about what we were watching slowly make its way toward us. 

We could hear twigs cracking as the thing got closer.

"Ghosts don't make twigs crack," I said. And just as I said that, the thing disappeared. All was quiet.

"What the heck?" Sam whispered, looking in the direction our ghost had been. 

Puzzled, we waited, but nothing else happened. We eventually went home. He to a large glass of scotch and me, back to kiddos with a million questions and theories. 

Sam and I decided to get out there the next night, because as Sam said, "We are close, Gabe."

Yeah, we were. We stood in the cool woods just off the road when we saw a light. But it seemed different than the one the night before. We squinted at it and started to see a form. It just stood on a path along the highway. We inched up as quietly as we could. 

"What on God's little acre?" Sam muttered.

There it was, an illuminated ghost standing on the path before us. We stopped dead, neither of us moving or saying a word. Then, to our sheer horror, the thing started ghost moaning. Then it started laughing.

"Wait a minute," I said, "I know that laugh." 

This is what we saw; Sam clicked off a quick snap:

Yup, this appeared on the pathway down from the road

Not able to contain its laughter, and the laughter of its brother, O'Hare suddenly appeared from under the sheet, and Guido turned the bright camping torch on us. 

"Oh, very funny lads." I said, and then, turning to Sam, "Those two culprits are me eldest and middle boyos."

They had set us up perfectly. Sam was convinced they did this every night, but I knew better. They did this because they wanted to jape their old man, and it was a one-time performance. 

Sam quit the investigation, convinced it was O'Hare and Guido making the village uneasy. But then the next night, we didn't bother with it, and I was home with both miscreants; the light was seen again! It took some talking by the folks at the Genny to both Sam and me to get back out there. Neither of us said what happened two nights prior; only Sam did say, in an offhand way, "Just some kids messing around."

Well, we gave it one more go-round. We were just about to leave the so-called area where the light was seen when suddenly it flashed on, and there it was floating in the air.

"You don't think it's some kind of UFO, do you?" Sam whispered, squinting at the floating orb.

I hadn't thought of that. Geez Louise! I shrugged; I had no clue. 

We crept forward; the thing wasn't moving but seemed to be moving in an arc in the same place. As we approached, we saw the outline of a man in the orb's light. He had his back to us and was holding the orb over his head, moving it around. 

Sam stood up from his crouching position and said out loud, "Barney? Barney, is that you? What are you doing?"

Barney seemed startled at Sam's voice and turned around, his hand turning the orb at us. It was an iPhone.

"Sam, is that you? Who's with you?"

"Sully, we were hunting down the ghost light."

"The what?" 

We explained about the strange light on the side of the road, and Barney started laughing.

"Well … I'm sorry to disappoint you guys, but I came out here to get a signal for my phone."

Here, Sam and I spent nights investigating, only to discover our neighbour trying to find cell service, holding his phone over his head to do it. 

I tell ya, living in the backwoods is anything but dull.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Expat Northern Irishman AKA Honorary Bostonian, Goes Home For A Visit

26 July 2026

1193

R. Linda:

Who says ye can’t go home again? ME!

I spent two days in Belfast working on a story on the renewed Troubles, as you know. Once I got me story done, I took the weekend to relax on the old sod. I was staying with me sissy Sheila in Newry, and decided to take meself to some old haunts in Dublin. 

I travelled on down to the Republic and met up with Liam McGinty, me oul’ Segotia. Liam and I got into a lot of mischief in our university years, like doing dumb things in public to make people laugh. We’d take turns jogging around Trinity College, but not your typical jogging; we’d run with legs and arms flailing with stupid expressions on our faces. One of us would run; the other would film it. I'd be quite chuffed to say none of those films exists anymore, but admitting that is a big admission, and because there is no proof to be had on the Internet, we both thank St. Brigid for not turning our faces red. 

I did find one thing in particular that I had not noticed about meself. Once I started talking, Liam looked at me with an amused expression.

I was telling him about the number of “Nor’eastah’s” we get, and he was like, What? I even said they were enough to send one to the “packie,” and he was laughing. 

“Wot be uhhh, uhhh, Nor'eastah and a packie?”

He rightly thought Nor'easter, but he thought packie meant a slang term for a Pakistani. That was when I knew I was talking like a Bostonian — not an American, mind you, a Bostonian. I had to explain that, yes, he was right: nor'easter, and packie was a package store, not a person. 

I had called him a “Kehd” when I first saw him, saying, “Hey kehd, howarya?” Yeah. He ignored that, and I didn’t notice. 

But later, when I put “wicked” before every word, he started shaking his head, and I knew I had to think before I spoke. He had no idea what a “wicked pissah” was, and the Irish culchie went out the window when I replaced it with townie. I ordered a tonic, and he had no clue what that was, and neither did the waiter. When I said soft drink, they both said, “Oooh. Okay.”

I ordered scrod; he and the waiter were like, “What? You mean hake?” Liam guessed. 

On the way home, we came to a carriageway I called a rotary. When I missed a turn, he told me to make a U-turn, and I said, “Okay, banging a Uey.” When he told me to turn by the fountain, I drove up to it and said, “That bubblah?” 

When I saw Liam’s house and said, “Hey, you live in a triple deckah,” he looked perplexed. “What’s a triple deckah? A bus? Because this ain’t a bus, dare, Gabe.”

That's when it finally hit me.

I'd gone home expecting to slip right back into the old rhythm, but somewhere between New England winters, packies, bubblahs, rotaries, and wicked pissahs, the rhythm had changed. I wasn't trying to sound like a Bostonian. I just… did.

It's a strange thing when your oldest friend becomes your translator. Liam spent half the day asking me, "What in the name of God are ye on about now? I be so confused," and the other half laughing at me. Fair enough — I'd have laughed at him too.

It is said that you can never go home again because home changes. It turns out they're only half right about that. Sometimes home stays exactly the same... and you're the one who changes.

So who says ye can't go home again?

ME.

Apparently, I can get there just fine. I just need subtitles.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Assignment: Northern Ireland

24 July 2026 

1192

R. Linda:

I was given an assignment in Northern Ireland! I was thrilled to return home. I was imagining the food, familiar places, old friends, and professional respect. Instead, me sister hijacked me schedule and gave me grief over her memoirs. 

I was set to stay in a hotel, but me Sissy insisted I should come and stay with her and the Dolan person (her husband) and be treated to good old-fashioned home cooking (she forgets our Mam lives with me and I get that and better back home). 

To get away from her, I rang up Wolfie and asked him out for a drink and catch-up. I hadn't seen him in a while, and he was open to a meet-up, so off I went. Unfortunately, old acquaintances remembered things I hoped were forgotten, and Wolfie reminisced about them, much to my chagrin. It was bad enough that back at Sheila's, she was producing evidence of childhood incidents I had spent decades blaming on HER. 

One thing about veteran reporters: they know everyone's business. I knew Wolfie knew about things in the U.K. news business that I did not. I was ripe for some gossip, but he wasn't. No, instead, he was more interested in bringing up our trip to Scotland with Weasil many years ago, and that was painful. During that trip, he disappeared on me several times because he had enough Weasil and needed to recharge, leaving me with the young whippersnapper. 

The only things I remember now are that he and I drank a lot, because we were driven to it by the Weasil's antics. So a lot of it was a haze, but I did remember that no matter how buzzed I was, the Wolf never got in that condition. He was always sharp, no matter how many Scotchs we had. So he remembered things I did not. He enjoyed watching me facial expressions as he brought up Weasil shenanigans that were perpetrated on me without me realising most of them.

The one-sided conversation was enlightening to say the least. I felt like wringing Weasil's neck if I could only get a hold of that slippery character. 

Proof to Weasil that Wolfie and I met up AND he told me everything!

I was in Ireland to do a story on the rekindled Troubles. I had me interviews set up and asked Wolfie if he could get me access to his friend who worked for one of the big news agencies to be me photographer. He put in a call, and one Brendan was at me beck and call. Then I asked if he had an editor available, as I had a deadline and wanted everything I took back to Boston, polished and complete (to impress Cruella and me job security). Yes, he could arrange that too. 

We went over to where he used to work (he's retired), and he got us in. I met an Editor who was accommodating of what I wanted, but he communicated entirely in terms of deadlines. 

"All right, Mr. O'Sullivan, you bring in your copy by 2. Corrections by 2:30, photos by 3:00, headline finalised by 3:30, we'll get it rolling for Boston by 4 and if your story misses any of those, tomorrow's apology is due before sunrise."

I stood there speechless. OK.

Later, Wolfie told me he was joking, but I don't think he was. 

The Chief Editor introduced me to the copy editor, a bespectacled woman who was all business. She'd take care of me. Wolfie took me aside after and said, "She notices every misplaced comma, but never notices where she left her glasses."

Oh, goody, one of those. While she was chatting with us, Wolfie felt inclined to mention I was an expat and told her not to divulge too many secrets of the trade. I know he was joking, but she looked like he was not. Uh oh, I thought, me copy might have more commas than normal and read as something totally unrecognisable. This raised me tension level to the point that I might not make the deadline.

As we were leaving, we went by the sports desk, and wow, what a loud bunch. I thought the group at me newspaper was bad; these guys were louder than all the Boston guys combined. I even glanced to see if THEY had folders, and no, no, they did not. They had the same crushed and rolled-up paper balls strewn all over the place. A few were tossing them like basketballs at trash bins. 

We met up with Brendan, and Wolfie left us to the assignment at hand. I did notice the photographer seemed to be in the wrong place until the perfect moment. He had a knack for seemingly wandering not too far, but far enough to give me angst that he wouldn't get the photo I wanted. 

By the end of the day, Brendan had somehow managed to photograph exactly what I needed without ever seeming to be where I wanted him. The copy editor had removed enough commas to build a small picket fence (I got nervous and comma-ed everything just about), the editor barked another three possible deadlines at me, and finally me and the story were ready to wing our way to Boston.

I thanked everyone for the help and later said to Wolfie, "You've got a fine operation here."

"Aye," he said. "We try."

I paused before adding, "You know, this whole trip wasn't exactly what I expected."

"Ni?"

"I came home expecting comfort, nostalgia and maybe a bit of professional admiration."

"What did you get?"

"A sister producing evidence of crimes I'd successfully blamed on her for years . . . a friend reminding me of every embarrassing thing I'd forgotten . . . and an editor who measures time in thirty-minute increments."

Wolfie grinned.

"Sounds like home to me."

The annoying thing was, he was right.

I flew back to Boston with a good story, a notebook full of interviews, and several fresh reasons to hunt down Weasil. Unfortunately, Weasil has always possessed an almost supernatural instinct for disappearing just before justice catches up with him.

I'm beginning to suspect that's how he has lived this long.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

The Missing Intern

22 July 2026 

1191

R. Linda:

I don't know what it is, or why, but I was given a new intern to shadow me. I was told I did such a good job with Ms. Jaio that I was the first to come to mind for this new one. When they had Ms. Jaio shadow me, I thought they were thinking of replacing me, so I didn't really show her 'everything', if you get me drift. Despite that, she caught on, and the topping on the sundae for me was that she put in for a position where she'd be in me department. As you know, all that worked out to me advantage. 

So, this time I didn't baulk. I told Ms. Jaio that "we" had an intern coming and I'd appreciate her help and people skills. She said, "Anytig u need." I sat back with a smile, that, yes, indeed, anything I need, like pawning this newbie off on Ms. Jaio. 

Mallory Crutz walked into me office and introduced herself as me new charge. Mallory had thick glasses that made her eyes look huge, and an overbite that was alarming if you got too close. All in all, she looked like a bug, or as Ms. Jaio whispered to me later, "She looks lack mosqueezo" (mosquito). Unfortunately, this put me in gales of laughter, and I couldn't help it every time Mallory popped her head in my office to say a word or two. I wondered if she knew I was laughing at her, but I tried me best to reassure her that I was working on a funny story, which I would not share the jokes of because "it be unfinished." How she could not think I was laughing at her, I don't know, but like I say, I be not sure she didn't know that. It got worse because Ms. Jaio understood that every time she said the word "mosqueezo," we'd both burst out laughing. I kept hearing Ms. Jaio's words, and I lost it every time. 

Within four hours of levity, I managed to lose Ms. Crutz. I waited 15 more minutes for her to show up, but she didn't. I covertly alerted the newsroom, and the entire staff started searching for her, which amazed me that they'd do that. For another 45 minutes, there was still no sign of the missing Mallory Crutz. I was thinking of all kinds of excuses for where she could be if Cruella asked. 

Well, it turns out Missy Crutz had wandered into the sports department, and nobody questioned it, because she "looked busy." 

"Busy doing what?" I asked one of the pumped geniuses who works in there. 

"I dunno. She had a bunch of folders in her arms, and she was looking at the titles, and I thought she was working on something for us."

Yeah, probably looking to see if any datable material was available. She was single and looking; she told Jaio that. Anyway, that was a quick thought.

"Like?" I pushed, truly curious as to why he would think that, since folders and sports writers don't seem to mix. I couldn't see a folder anywhere in there, just a lot of paper crushed into balls strewn all around the room.

"The FIFA stuff." He sounded clueless about why anyone in the sports department would be filing through folders for a soccer organisation, especially since all the deadlines for the "FIFA stuff" were met hours ago. He sat there in a defensive posture, almost daring me to ask him to try to explain all that. I did not; it wasn't worth the effort of standing there and listening to a full load of malarkey.

I got Ms Crutz's attention and signalled with my head to follow me. Once in the hallway, I asked her why she was with the sports staff.

"You looked busy, so I thought I'd take a look around." Oh, now I looked busy. 

"YOU were supposed to be filing those," I pointed at the folders in her arms, "and instead, you are taking a tour of the sports department."

She stood there with that myopic gaze I was trying not to laugh at. I felt like I was bullying a two-year-old by that time. I told her to return to filing, and then we'd find something a little more "meaty" for her to sink those buck teeth into. Well, I didn't say it like that, though I did think it. I was pissed she'd wander away without a word to either Ms. Jaio or me. 

This wasn't working for me. I didn't know that I could last four weeks with Ms. Crutz. So far, she's managed to wander off several times. Let me see, we started with the sports department, then we visited the style and entertainment staff. To make matters more interesting, we were lurking around the Obit writers like we were taking bets on what famous person is dying next, and finally, we were busy conversing with the editorial staff and giving input on reporters working for the paper, as well as who should be assigned what at the assignment desk! WHO IS SHE?

Marjorie, the editor Mallory had 'latched" onto, looked none too happy. I surmised Ms. Crutz was cruising around the paper to see if she'd rather be somewhere other than the political reporting team. I also found out, or I should give Ms. Jaio the credit, that Ms. Crutz is one opinionated person. She has opinions on EVERYTHING and EVERYONE. 

Ms. Jaio clued me in first with this gem: "Geez Gobriel, she'z makin' mi crazee wit ah tellin' me every little tig I do is wong. She even tole me I hol mi pen wong."

I'd almost felt sorry for Jaio, but make no mistake, when it comes to Ms. Jaio, she is a piranha at getting even. 

I was talking on the phone to a contact, and Ms. Crutz was leaning against the doorframe. I signalled her to come in and sit down. She did and stared at me the entire time, making me feel self-conscious that I was doing something wrong. Well, I didn't have to wait too long to find out what.

"You really need to hold that phone away from your ear. You know you can get brain tumours from holding it too close. Or, try this: put it on speaker. Here, I'll show you how," and she held out her hand like I should hand the phone over. I did not. I sat there staring back at her like she had two heads. I said nothing, got up, and left her sitting there, then pawned her off on Ms. Jaio, who sighed heavily and whispered, "You owe mi." 

Filing was done, I promised "meat," and I told Jaio to find something like that to keep Ms. Crutz busy and in our department. Well, Jaio took me literally; I should have known better. When I returned, they were both in the break room. Jaio was supervising Mallory making sandwiches. 

Ms. Jaio was saying, "Bread fist, den turkay, canberree sauce, litess, mayo, bread, cut wid nif."

It seems Ms. Jaio had Ms. Crutz make turkey sandwiches for the entire floor. I was gobsmacked. 

I put an end to that instantly, after grabbing a sannie and stuffing me cakehole. With a mouthful of sannie, I told Ms. Crutz to go find me a Johnny Walker Stat (I was kidding). When I turned around, she was gone.

Off she went, never asking me who Johnny Walker was or where he was located. No, she was happy to be out of the break room, and so she disappeared. Not just for the rest of the day, but for the next day and the day after that...

Well, between Ms. Jaio and me, I am the only journalist capable of misplacing a human being. BUT, I did come in to work today to find a bottle of Johnny Walker Red sitting on me desk. I stuck it in a drawer instantly before Cruella came by and deemed I must be an alcoholic. I am tense now because I have no clue where in the building Ms. Crutz is. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

The Great Campground Disaster

20 July 2026

1190

R. Linda:

O'Hare wanted to go camping, but no one else did. He was disappointed, and Tonya's suggestion that he set up a tent in the backyard didn't go over very well. I felt bad and told him I'd go. I asked if there were any takers for the great outdoors because this was the last call. Nope, none. 

Well, one problem was the Canadian smoke. It was not the kind of air to breathe, but it wasn't as bad as it was south of us. We decided to wear those funny-looking respirator masks and go anyway. 

So this morning, with the orange colored landscape (from the smoke), we set off. We had got all we needed the night before, so we were feeling kind of good. Sunday, the weather was supposed to be normal, no smoke, so we could hike, maybe and enjoy each other's company. 

We arrived up north, and the air was better; we didn't need the masks, so that helped a lot. We set up camp at a campground deep in the woods. There were maybe two other tents that I could see, so we were all set. We roasted hot dogs over an open fire, cleaned out our pan in the river and then noticed the sky was getting dark. A storm was coming in from the west, so, feeling full from lunch, we decided we'd take a nap, and by that time the storm would have passed. Since it would be late in the day, we'd catch the last bit of daylight by the river fishing.

The storm came, the wind was way up, the rain started to pound down and let me tell you, a tent isn't the place to be when it rains. We were getting wet from water running in through gaps under the tent. We laughed about it, and were still having a good time. We decided to sit on one side where there wasn't any wet and try to have a "siesta." 

It's not easy to sleep in a sitting position with your legs almost to your chin, but we gave it a shot. I don't think either of us would have fallen asleep, but we didn't get that chance because suddenly a gust of wind came that collapsed the tent with us in it, of course! I can tell ya that wasn't fun. There was no laughter because we were wrapped in moving fabric that was blowing in the direction the wind wanted us to go, which was the river!

We made a good go of trying to disentangle ourselves, with O'Hare managing, and as he rolled out, the wind blew another good gust, and the fabric that had held O'Hare found me, and I was wrapped double in a tent. That wasn't bad enough; I was still on me way to the river!

"I've got ya Da!" O'Hare was yelling, holding on to an edge of the tent flap and pulling for all he was worth to keep me and the tent from becoming a floating mess downstream. 

Just in the nick of time, the wind died down, and I was being dragged through the mud, still wrapped in the tent over rocks and sticks, until I was up away from the river edge. I tell ya, you haven't lived until you wrap yourself in a tent and go for a near swim, and then be dragged through mud and sticks!

Once we got me untangled, we reset the muddy tent. We tried reinforcing it with sticks, for all the good it would do. We also moved it way back from the riverbank. By dinner, we were all situated again and hoping that it was a freak affair and the rest of our stay would be non-eventful.

To think I was dressed in that

I had brought a couple of t-bone steaks for us to grill, and we were all about those steaks, let me tell you. They smelled delicious as they cooked, and we were primed. Until there was this roar from behind us. We both stood up and looked around.

"OH GOD, OH GOD!" O'Hare was saying as he grabbed me arm and pulled me towards the car. I was glad he had the presence of mind not to go into the flimsy tent BECAUSE we had an uninvited dinner guest, a bear, a huge black bear. He stood over 8 feet tall, sniffing the air and walking on his hind legs towards the almost done steaks. Well, there went the dinner we were salivating over. Including the pan, I had put the French fries in to go with it. We watched from the car windows as our dinner disappeared into the forest. 

There goes dinner

"I have no words." O'Hare said, "None."

Dinnerless, we decided to call it a day and try to get some sleep. All night long, strange noises kept us alert and awake. 

"You think one of those roars is Bigfoot?"

"Stop it, just stop it," O'Hare said, not appreciating me attempt at humour.

By morning, I found meself by meself. Where the heck was O'Hare? I got up, went out and looked around; there was no sign of the lad. I looked in the car, but he wasn't there. I eventually found him sleeping in somebody's camper. His excuse was that I freaked him out with the Bigfoot talk, and he decided the tent wasn't safe, so he was on his way to the car when he heard something growling nearby, and he ran and found these people pulling in late, who he told what was going on, and they invited him in. That's all fine and good, but he left his old man in a tent, by himself, unaware of what was going on outside that tent! I tell ya.

That did it for me. No more camping with O'Hare, I be done. Of course, all the way home, I talked Bigfoot up really big. Told all manner of lying stories to the lad about what has not been reported that no one talks about. Had him going, I did. I still haven't told him that none of it is true. Just gonna keep that going for a little while longer. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Me Sister Writes Her Memoir

19 July 2026

1189

R. Linda:

A little ago, I received word that me sister, Sheila, has got the writing bug. Yes, me Mam told me over breakfast that Sheila is writing about her childhood in Northern Ireland. It didn't take me half-asleep brain any time at all to realise yours truly would be included in that massive missive. That brought a cold chill to me heart, it did. 

"How far along is she on this memoir of hers?" I asked.

"Oh, quite a bit, I should tink. She started it last year."

"And, I am just now hearing about this?" I was incredulous.

"Well." She shrugged her shoulders.

I sat there amazed. I was hearing about this now, because Sissy was probably near finished, and I couldn't do a thing about it at this point. 

"So, Mam, what did she write about me?" I asked point-blank. 

"Oh, I dunt no. I 'aven't read it." So innocently said. 

I rang up me sister and demanded to see the manuscript because I was quite a bit certain she distorted history, my history. She initially dismissed my request, but after I followed up, she reluctantly sent me a chapter. 

It had numerous grammatical errors and was hard to read, so I corrected it first and then read it. It became a near obsession. There were significant issues with her sentence placement, her paragraph breaks were almost non-existent, and I was beside meself before I realised that if I left it as is, no editor would even look at it. 

Then the truth dawned on me. She wasn't that inept at grammar. She did that on purpose to make me insane enough to work on correcting it and not really read what she wrote underneath the mistakes. Me sly sissy deliberately weaponised me proofreading instincts!

I started over, this time to read it and let it sink in. I noticed she had got in touch with Weasil of all people, who supplied her with anecdotes that were entirely untrue. I had requested a chapter that pertained to me, and well, I got one!

I needed to remind her that Weasil was not part of our shared childhood; he wasn't even born! He lived in Scotland for crying out loud. She wrote about several embarrassing events she orchestrated, and I got blamed for them and grounded for years as a result of taking the fall for her. Did I get any credit for doing that? Nah. But she got Weasil to back her up that these terrible things were my idea, and that they actually happened, when he wasn't even around for any of it.

Not to be outdone by Weasil, me own Mam supplied photographic evidence! What the hay? I started to correct this blarney, then realised it was counter-intuitive, and I should write a competing memoir. 

I rang Sheila up and told her what I was doing. We both threatened to expose each other's ridiculous childhood secrets.

There was a long silence on the phone.

"So, that be the game yer playin' now, is it?" She asked me.

"Aye," I said. "You've started a literary war, ya 'av."

She laughed. "Fine den. Jus remember, I still 'ave the photograph of you dressed as a cowboy, crying because the horse at Barry's Amusements sneezed at yer fine self."

"That horse was unstable!" I protested. "It had a madness in its eyes."

"It was tied to a post, it wuz."

"That be beside the point."

She ignored me. "An' Mam still has the picture of you trying to convince everyone you were a famous explorer after getting lost in the field behind our hoose."

"I wasn't lost. I was conducting a survey."

"You were found by Mrs. McKinney three hours later, sittin' in a ditch eating blackberries."

"That is a vicious rumour."

"It happened."

"It allegedly happened."

She giggled, and then I heard the words that sent another chill through me.

"I 'aven't even got to your teenage years yet."

Oh, sweet suffering saints! 

Now, I know you're thinking, Why not simply deny everything? That's what any sensible person would do. Unfortunately, me sister has a filing system. She has notebooks, letters, photographs, Christmas cards with notes scribbled on the back, and apparently witnesses who are more than happy to testify against meself. 

Even worse, me Mam has become the chief archivist for the prosecution!

Every time Sheila asks, "Do you have a picture of Gabe doing such-and-such?" Mam disappears for five minutes and returns triumphantly with exactly the photograph required.

It's like living under investigation by the Historical Society.

So now I have no choice.

If Sheila is writing her version of our childhood, then I shall write mine.

Mine will, of course, contain only verified facts, impeccably researched recollections, and the absolute truth.

Well . . . my absolute truth.

And if, purely by coincidence, Sheila ends up looking like the mastermind behind every bit of mischief that occurred between 1965 and whenever she finally moved out, that's simply because history has at long last found an honest historian.

She says her memoir is about remembering our childhood.

Mind is about correcting the record.

May the best liar . . . er . . . historian win!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

The Dog Show

16 July 2026

1188

R. Linda:

Talk about dull assignments, I got one I didn't want and shouldn't have got in the first place. A lot of staff are out on holiday (vacation to you Americans), so covering for someone else can be a bit tricky, like who is available, does the story have merit, etc. I have just come back from me own time off and was all set to get back to work. Yes, I was looking forward to covering something noteworthy and/or exciting. I had just got to me desk when Cruella waved me to her office. 

"Gabe, Laura is out with really bad allergies; she can hardly talk, and her voice sounds like she's got a mouthful of gravel. I'm going to need you to cover a story for her."

"Laura? You mean … " I didn't get to say the last name of the Laura I thought she was talking about, because Cruella said the last name of someone in what we call the "Fluffy-Puffy" section, AKA Style and Home News. 

UGH! I have been roped into these fluff pieces a few times and expected nothing different with this one.

"What this time?" I asked.

"The Bay City Dog Show."

There was silence between us, her watching THAT sink in and me letting it. What could I do? I asked her what was needed for the doggy assignment, then went back to my desk to contemplate how to approach it. 

Let me start by saying I don't think there is anything more dull than a dog show. A local one at that. It had to be a slow news day for this to happen.

I put on me doggy game face, had all I needed, and set off for the venue. I had time before the show, so I stopped at a Starbucks across from the glorified dog kennel. I sat there watching handlers and owners arriving with their well-groomed animals. Not able to tarry too long, I finished me coffee and headed across the way.

I showed me credentials and press pass, and I was directed where to go. That was the big backroom, the size of a warehouse, where all the dogs would be on tables getting that last bit of grooming in. I didn't have to look too hard, just follow the yapping and voila, there I was among the best of the best in doggy terms. 

I walked around looking for a suitable competitor to interview, but they were all so honed in on grooming that it was difficult to get their attention. I stood back and listened to the cooing, yipping, the sound of machines, hands brushing or combing, spray bottles spritzing, ribbons and other paraphernalia being put on, and I realised I was watching the competitors treat all this like the Olympics.

As I hovered around, I could overhear what sounded like espionage theories. Like, this one: "Freddie, did you see Alva's mut? It looks like she's got him on that new Pro Coat diet; his coat has a Pro Coat sheen. Go find out if that's what the change is." And off the man went to Alva's table, where she was busily fluffing out her Afghan Hound's gorgeous coat. 

I wandered over as well. I figured I'd like to know that too, maybe break the ice and get an interview going. Once the pleasantries were exchanged, I stepped in, introduced meself, and asked if I could get some tips on how 'Alva' got her dog's coat to shine. Freddie did a double-take at me, like, Is the coat that obvious an outsider noticed? 

Well, I had me answer even if Alva refused to say what it was. With Freddie standing there, she wasn't about to divulge her secret. She got very cagey and, in a roundabout fashion, told me it was all her hard work and grooming techniques. Yeah, neither Freddie nor I believed a word.

Freddie excused himself with a "I've got to get back." 

Alva whispered to me, "Pre-show rituals with those two."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, just watch." She said, continuing to brush her dog.

We both watched as Freddie got a damp towel and laid it down on the floor, then the dog was placed on the towel, a timer was set for 10 minutes, and they stepped back, watching the animal.

"SOOO, what's that about?" I asked. 

"10 minutes before show time. That signals to the dog that the setting is transitioning from downtime to "show time."

"Oh, I see," I said, but I didn't. I left Alva to it and wandered over to the terriers. Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, what a bunch of loudmouths those things are. Yappy little dogs with mincing little steps. I got over there just in time for an argy to break out. 

"YOU, sir, are psychologically intimidating my dog! You can't come over and look at my dog with a mean scowl on your face, make throaty noises that sound like a rattlesnake and walk away."

This was said to a man I thought was a judge, and it was probably a bad idea to confront him if he was judging your dog. The man just smiled, then turned around, bent his head toward the terrier in question, and growled. Then he laughed and walked away. 

"Some people!" The terrier's owner said, cuddling the dog and cooing that the mean man was gone and that everything was all right. I kept walking as I was beginning to realise how seriously everyone takes the event. All around me, groomers were blow-drying their animals as if preparing movie stars for an appearance. Owners were on the side whispering about the "main judge." One handler was being sneaky and using a shampoo that's borderline unethical; guess who? Alva. It wasn't the dog food at all; I overheard her say to her assistant, "No one is looking, right?"

"You should have put that stuff in a different bottle." The assistant said, looking around nervously.

"I know, I forgot I was in a rush!"

"Just get it done, Alva."

I noted that mentally and walked on like I heard nothing. I got to the French poodle section, and wow, talk about glamour pusses; these dogs are it, and they know it. Snooty noses in the air, impeccibly groomed, they mirrored their equally snooty owners. One handler even spoke French to her charge. She told me she was convinced her poodle understood French better than English. 

I'd never seen a dog with its own hairdresser. I barely know people with one, let alone all THIS pampering at a dog show.

I was almost taken off my feet when the call for the Afghan Hounds was announced. It amazes me that these people can identify eighteen varieties of spaniel at fifty paces, and here I was trying to determine which end of the Afghan Hound was the front.

If that wasn't disconcerting, a burly Marine in fatigues was walking down the aisle with, of all things, his Chihuahua. The tiny thing wagged its tail at me like we were old friends. I bent down to pat him and asked, "What do you call him?"

"Tank." This was said without batting an eyelash. 

I found out the dog was a 'support dog' for an Irish Setter. Who knew? I also found out the dogs are impeccably behaved. Their owners, on the other hand, required considerably more training. I had entered the world of strange customs almost as if I was embedded with an eccentric tribe of dog lovers.

It was time for the competition, so I walked out to the show ring. The first set of dogs out were the Toys. Each one was examined by a judge: teeth, coat, confirmation and then told to trot around the ring. All very professional UNTIL the announcer came on over the loudspeaker and treated every lap around the ring like the Kentucky Derby. Talk about overly enthusiastic; this guy certainly was. I had to wonder if he called races in his spare time.

It was then that it got even weirder for me. I was standing at the entrance to the ring when this well-dressed gent with a Springer Spaniel was making his entrance. He stopped suddenly when he reached me, handed me the leash and said, "Oh no, I've got the runs." And off he ran, leaving me holding the leash. It was then that the announcer called me to the judges' table. I was like WHAT? I pointed at meself, and he nodded. What to do? 

I did what I usually do without thinking: I took the dog to the table and lifted him onto it, as I'd seen the handlers do. And, since everyone was assuming I was his professional handler, I found meself fielding questions from the judge. I had no clue how to answer. The ones about grooming techniques and bloodlines, I mumbled me way through. The dog, of course, behaved perfectly; it was I who should have had points taken off. The run around the ring almost filled me with pride; the announcer was very complimentary to ME! Said how I had great form and handled an "exceptional representative of the Spaniel breed."

I was shaking me head in amazement when a teenager who had already had two dogs in competition came out with a third. He was all of 18 and very serious about his handler role. He was so good with his dogs; you could tell they loved him, which impressed me. Yes, I was thinking he was the most competent person in the building. 

Well, he won in all his competitions: the toy, non-sporting, and herding groups. This was me man. I needed to interview this guy, I told meself, and so I did. 

His name is Johnny Gallagher, and he owns two border collies. The dogs at the show he is the trainer/handler of. He told me about his background and how he got into the "dog circuit," and I was impressed by him. For an eighteen-year-old, he was well spoken, polite and confident. Reminded me of my eldest; he did. 

Just as I was wrapping it up, a scruffy stray dog trotted into the ring. Where it came from, nobody knew. Since I was closest to the dog, the powers that be waved me to try to catch it. I was hoping it didn't bite, and softly called it. It sat down very obediently and wagged its tail as I approached. As soon as I got my hand on its collar, it wiggled around and licked at me hand like it was my dog! The crowd's reaction was phenomenal; they all "ahhed" at us and started clapping. It was just the icing on the cake, so to speak; here, a stray mut stole the hearts of the pediagree crowd. 

But the best was yet to come. Guess what dog won the spaniel competition? MINE! Well, not mine exactly.

I did think back home, if your dog wins a competition, you tell the neighbours. Here, they hire a photographer and update the family Christmas card (of which I am in a photo with the owner of the Springer Spaniel and a few others, everyone except the gent in the loo). Won't that be a surprise to some when they ask WHO'S THAT?

Gabe

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