The Great Thanksgiving Dog Search Party of 2025

Ah yes...The Great Thanksgiving Dog Search Party of 2025! I remember it like it was last week. (Well, since it was last week, I'd be in trouble if I couldn't remember it...)

There was a Fall nip in the air, a taste of the biting bitter coldness of Winter to come; leaves of gold, yellow, and brown still stood knee-high in our yard (much to the chagrin of our neighbors); and our house was filled with a multitude of delectable odors as my wife kept kicking me out of our tiny kitchen. It could only mean it was Thanksgiving.

These days, most of us have extended families, which means family members work around schedules, trying to accommodate everyone. So the first of several of our Thanksgivings was to take place on Tuesday, the 25th. My wife came up with a great idea to relieve family of the typical Thanksgiving spread: she sent out a survey asking everyone what their two fave foods were. This resulted in lasagna sitting next to fried chicken, deviled eggs coinciding peacefully with angel food cake, barbeque meat vying for room against the mashed taters, etc. (Diet, what diet? We're STILL working on leftovers.)

On Monday, my brother and sister-in-laws traveled up from Oklahoma City with their two Labrador mixes riding comfortably in the back of their van. Monday night we all gathered at our house, talking about a multitude of things including how we all agreed that in movies, people in jeopardy was no big thing; but put a dog in peril and we're all emotionally invested.  DUM-Dum-Duhhhhhhh....(oooh, real-life foreshadowing!).

Tuesday morning, our family members were to leave their dog-friendly air B&B (just blocks away from us) and join us for brunch. Then we got the text from my brother-in-law: We'll be over as soon as I find Chuck and Tilly because they escaped out of the yard.

Chuck, the naughty agent provocateur who led his sister astray.

Knowing the neighborhood better than my out-of-town bro-in-law, I joined the search, my mother-in-law riding shotgun. Up and down the mean streets of suburban Kansas we crawled (pissing off cars behind us), looking for two missing Labs. Being a nice day, there were tons of people out walking, predominantly dog-walkers. Everyone was very polite, but the dog-walkers really jumped to attention. Several times, it was suggested that we look on the local neighbors Facebook page. I attempted to get on, but was stymied by questions and a waiting period while the powers-that-be determined if I was worthy of joining.

By this time, my wife put cooking on hold and joined the search party, so there were four of us out looking, while my sister-in-law acted as the hub headquarters, calling local shelters and vets. Several times we realized we were duplicating efforts as people would say, "oh yeah, we just talked to someone else about your dogs." And every time they said they'd keep an eye out.

But then it dawned on us: how would they get in contact with us? So, my mother-in-law searched for paper, anything she could find in the car, and began tearing off bits and writing phone numbers, dog names, etc. to hand out to people. Sometimes the recipients looked at the proffered piece of napkin or cardboard box with hesitation, but most accepted it willingly.

My mother-in-law (probably the friendliest person in America) was given the task of jumping out and approaching people at parks to tell our story (I figured people would be less afraid of her than me). She made many, many friends along the way, explaining our situation (probably more details than necessary) as I grew more stressed; I could feel time ticking away like a countdown to a bomb. Tensions were high as we continued the search.

Finally, one woman walking two dogs, suggested we get on the neighborhood Facebook page again. I told her we couldn't and she said, "hold on" and checked her phone for us. Seconds later, she said, "Are these your dogs?" 

Now, neither mom-in-law nor I were familiar enough with the dogs to make a definitive identification so we discussed dog colorings, ears and appearance in the car while the good Samaritan kept holding her phone toward us.

Finally, my mother-in-law said, "That's them!" Feeling triumphant, we had a high-five moment while the woman attempted to contact the person who had captured the dogs. The person wasn't immediately responding, but it was just a matter of waiting . Fully confident, I contacted family members and told them "we found your dogs!"

Then the good Samaritan flagged us down again. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't read the full post. It's just one of your dogs. The person who caught one, almost caught the other...but she escaped."

Disheartened, I called back the relatives and told them the semi-bad news.

The search continued. Meanwhile the person who had Chuck contacted my bro-in-law and he went to retrieve him. One down, one to go.

Briefly I came home, got on the computer, and tried to get on the Facebook page. I took the survey and waited. Then Mom and I went out again, this time broadening our search area. On occasion, we'd cross paths with someone else in our search party, and go the opposite direction. Mom was asking everyone in sight, handing out our little information napkins, cardboard, whatever.

Taking a quick break for lunch, refueling, we gobbled and went back on the hunt again. Somewhere along the way, I traded out my mom-in-law for brother-in-law, where we were finally able to compare crucial information. Chuck had been nabbed at a local Starbucks, so that gave us a bit further circumference to search.

As I had grown up in the neighborhood, I started having flashbacks as to when my dogs ran away. One came home of his own volition: we just heard him enter the open garage and begin to eat his dinner. Another we found down in a ritzy golf course romping with another dog. Finally, the third didn't have such a happy ending: he had been hit by a car on the extremely busy (pseudo highway) Shawnee Mission Parkway. Which was right next to the Starbucks where Tilly had last been spotted. (Gulp!)

We kept driving around at a snail's pace, my bro-in-law occasionally yelling "Tilly" out the window and stopping every person who didn't look like a serial killer. I took a quick break and went home to check my neighborhood Facebook page status. I was in! I wrote a veritable novel about Tilly and her peoples' situation (TOO much info, I'm sure) and let the magic of Facebook do it's job. We got over 600 responses! Alas, they were all of the "sad face emoji" or prayers or good luck variety. Tilly had not been found.

Meanwhile, an hour away (and while at work), my daughter joined the search by calling every shelter and animal control in surrounding counties. Eventually, my nephew joined as well. I haven't seen this big a city wide "manhunt" since...well...ever.

At 5:30 or so, we decided it was futile to continually drive around, our thoughts being that someone had picked her up and hadn't reported her yet. (OR...someone decided to keep her.) But we were exhausted, out of ideas, and we had the entire Kansas City metro area on red hot alert (some of the people we talked to, were getting kind of sick of our double-alerting).

Meanwhile, bolstered by the power of social media, I put the same sob story on about eight sites (some of them questionable; one was like "Dog, The  Bounty Hunter {although it should probably be "Man, The Dog Hunter}," consisting of a couple of guys who would suit up and go all gung-ho when there was a dog sighting). 

Okay...truthfully I couldn't believe the outpouring of support we were receiving. One woman graciously went out and searched for the dogs on her own before enlisting her daughter in the cause, too. I sincerely hadn't seen or felt a sense of community like this since eleven years ago when an orange idiot decided to irrevocably divide our country and erode our democracy. It restored my faith in humanity...everyone uniting over a missing dog (kinda ironic, yes?).

But still no word on Tilly.

At 2:30 in the morning I couldn't sleep, visions of the worst case scenarios running through my head. I got on the computer, searching police reports and the websites for any news.

The next day was pretty grim, but we did our best to soldier through our early Thanksgiving over food and games. Still, Tilly's shadow loomed over us. Time and time again, I'd anthropomorphize (an annoying habit of mine, just ask my wife) Tilly's thoughts: I'm all alone, cold, have no idea where the hell I am, how dare my people do this to me!

Begrudgingly, Tilly's people left (minus Tilly) on their 4-1/2 hour trip home.

I'd pretty much given up all hope at this point.

Then at 5:45, my bro-in-law calls:

"Paul," I said, "what's up?"

"Tilly's been found."

Blink. Think. Clear out cobwebs. Blink again. "What?"

"She's at the Fairway Animal Hospital."

My mind skyrocketed over the Kansas City area with amazement. "Okay, is she hurt? How'd she get there? Wait! What time do they close? I'm sure they're not open on Thanksgiving! Crap! I gotta go! I'll send pics!"

On my way to the door, I grabbed my nephew (because Tilly knows him best), and my wife decided to drive. A race against time, we sped through our local neighborhoods (I'm sure a cop would escort us if he knew it was all about a dog, dogs being the great uniter and all), ignored speed-bumps, and bounced our way to the hospital with seconds to spare.

"There she is," said my nephew as we walked along the large front window. Tilly was surrounded by two doting employees and another couple.

"Hi Tilly! Where have you BEEN?" All of us were so relieved and happy to see her that all seemed forgiven. (But she'd better not ever do it again!)

The young couple standing nearby were introduced as the people who brought her in. After slobbering all over them, we got the skinny: Tilly was found in Fairway (which we'd all driven through numerous times) hunkered down behind this couples' air conditioner unit. Their other dogs were going nuts, barking up a storm, and they discovered Tilly, scared and nervous. Her tags were missing, but they took her to the hospital where they scanned her embedded chip and contacted Tilly's owner.

Everything was right with the world! Huzzah! Tilly's people were overjoyed to see video and photos and the next day, my mom-in-law would take Tilly back to Oklahoma to reunite with "mom and dad."

REUNITED! (And it feeeeeels so good...)

I got on all my websites and updated my story that Tilly had been found, so everyone could call off the (*ahem*) dogs.

In a fascinating coda to the tale (tail?), a woman responded: "That nice couple who found Tilly is my daughter and her husband. Ever since she graduated from college, she's saved numerous dogs. A while back, they had found another runaway dog in the exact same spot where Tilly was found. Dogs must feel something so strong that they know they'll be safe with my daughter and attracted to her house."

Wow. Cue the Twilight Zone theme...

Anyway, happy ending, normal is good, and I could finally relax. Whew. Then I started to wonder: maybe we could fix our country if we got Trump a dog. Just sayin'...

Okay, I'm gonna take this opportunity to pimp my book Secret Society (the first in the Killers Incorporated trilogy). Yeah, sure, it's a darkly comic thriller series about a secret cabal of serial killers working for an  evil nationwide conglomerate, bla, bla, bla. But a dog plays a crucial part in the story, humanizing (I hope!) one of the killers. (And don't worry, the dog has a happy ending.) Check it out here.

Highway Robbery!

Recently, our carpet shampooer broke. Kinda. All I know is that one of the bottom rollers got "jiggy-wanked." Or something. (Okay so I've never been the most technical guy.) Either way, the roller went rogue and had fallen off the pole.

I thought, "no problem, I'll just slip it back on." But no matter how much pressure I applied, I couldn't "thread the needle." 

So it was time to find someone who could.

Immediately, I ruled out "Mr. Fixit" for a couple reasons: A) All he ever did was clean our appliances and never actually fixed them; and B) I sorta got uncomfortable when the office guy of Mr. Fixit kept flirting with me.

The place where we took our vacuum last time was definitely off the table. First, the old guy with the impenetrable accent told me that he'd rather give me a good deal on a new vacuum than fix it. He claimed it would cost about the same. (I was sold, but my wife definitely was not.) After haggling with him about fixing it, he lost the vacuum for a couple weeks. When he FINALLY found it, it was missing all of the attachments. So much for that guy. No wonder his shop shut down.

So, with the help of my research assistant, Ms. Google, I found some small mom and pop shop that I was willing to gamble on. (And it turns out that it wasn't such a small shop after all; they had about six locations throughout the greater Kansas City metro area. In fact, later on I discovered that the con man who'd closed shop was one of their affiliates.)

Anyway, I hauled our shampooer into this small, cramped little store hidden away in an old fashioned strip mall. Old and new vacuums filled every inch of the place. When a little old man begrudgingly turned away from his TV, I thought I'd made a very big mistake.

"Help you?" he asked, deciding to conserve every word he could since it seemed like such a chore to speak. 

"Um...yeah...my shampooer is...sick." Immediately, I felt out of sorts, barely dodging the dangling vacuums hanging around me like beef carcasses on hooks.

Suddenly from behind a beaded curtain, a thin, old, ball-capped man came out. Wearing overalls (are those still a thing?) and thick glasses which magnified his beady eyes, he opened his mouth, not really in a smile or a snarl, and flashed green teeth at me. "What's wrong with it?" My Texas Vacuum Massacre vibe intensified.

After finding a few feet of empty space in the store, he dropped down bringing the cleaner with him. He asked the first old guy for a Philips screwdriver, fiddled around a bit, then told me, "your problem was a belt done come off."

He stood up, clapped his hands and said, "there ya go!"

I said, "Wow! It's fixed?"

"Ayup."

I reached for my wallet and said, "what do I owe you?"

Completely stymied, he juggled his hands as if weighing the price. With a shrug, he blurted out, "Ten bucks?"

My jaw dropped. In shock, I shouted, "What? That's highway robbery!"

The anger between the two guys was nearly palpable as they stared at one another, wondering how they'd dispatch of my corpse.

Before they did, I let them off the hook with a shaky grin. "Oh...I meant...it's a rip-off for you guys. I'm not paying you anything below twenty bucks!"

As the tension left the room, so did "Mr. Green Jeans and Teeth." Original old guy number one said, "He's rarely in here. You got lucky."

Quickly, I skedaddled and did indeed consider my self lucky. Lucky to leave with my life intact. (Truth be told, though, they've got my future business. I just need to make sure to bring back-up.)

While I have murderous, backwoods old guys on my mind, check out my horror thriller, Godland. It features two of my creepiest villains ever (I think), and to tell you anything else about the plot would be doing the potential reader a bad (or it's a shameless ploy to get you to read the book). Whatever the case, you can check it out here.

The Secret Message of Dogs

Recently, we've encountered a problem.

Up until about a couple of months ago, our dogs--both of them--were house-broken and potty-trained. But for whatever reason, they've now decided to be defiant and go rogue. And go all over the carpet.

Extremely aggravating doesn't even begin to cut it. I mean, poop is gross enough, but relatively easy to clean. Not pee, especially on carpet. We're constantly battling it with enzymes, cleaner, and shampooing the carpet is pretty much an every other day thing now. And STILL they insist on bucking authority.

It's not like they have it rough. They have a full fenced-in backyard where they can go nuts any time they like to. But our bigger dog doesn't even want to go outside any longer. Most mornings when I'm the first one out of bed, I have to pick Bijou up and toss her outside (and I'm sure the neighbors enjoy watching my new Olympic event: dog-throwing in underwear).

Here's what's most frustrating: both of the dogs know what they're doing is wrong. How do I know this? Because they try and hide it from us. First of all, it's nearly impossible to catch them in the act, sneaky lil' varmints that they are. But the real damning evidence is that they try to hide it from us by secretly going  behind my living room chair or beneath the table where nobody usually thinks to look.

More than one person has told me they're trying to tell me something. Which isn't helpful. But on those insomnia-stricken nights, in the wee hours of the morning, I've given their would-be "message" a lot of thought. And there's only one obvious conclusion: dogs everywhere are secretly plotting to overthrow humanity.

Their sneaky side-eye glances to one another haven't gone unnoticed. And when I enter a room, they break apart suddenly from their deep, secret communication.

You don't have to be a brain surgeon to figure out one of their typical conversations (to illustrate the brutal, troublesome truth, I've chosen to reenact a sample dialogue using their dog names)...

"Say, Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, when do you think we'll institute our secret plan to overthrow our loathsome human captors?"

"Soon, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph, soon. You must have patience, little one. We've already put our plan into action by defiling their domiciles. Now it's just a matter of waiting."

"But...but...Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, I'm tired of waiting! For too long we've had to suffer stoopid, cutesy human slave names for us. And to be forced to go to the bathroom outside? It's barbaric!"

"I agree, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph. We've been held down by The Man for centuries, but soon enough there will be an uprising. Soon we will reclaim our ability to walk upright on our back two legs. And soon we'll be able to put pants back on and take back some of the dignity that humans have tried to breed out of us."

"But...but...it's taking forever!

"What did I say about patience, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph? As soon as our great overlord, Snippy-Yip-Ruff-Ruff-Aroooo-Garooo-Garumph, calls for us to rise above our human shackles, then we'll move. In the not too distant future, we'll kick humans out into the yard to potty, no matter the weather!"

"I'm so excited! Can I put the Cone of Doom and a shock collar on the fat one?"

"Of course, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph!" (Mutual dog laughter all around).

THIS is one of the many things that keeps me up at night.

While we're talking about everything going to the dogs, I may as well plug my novel, Corporate Wolf, where the protagonist is a hairy beast. That's right, it's the only bloody, scary, funny, mysterious, corporate business satire, werewolf book ever to come out of Kansas! (Of course the competition isn't very stiff...) But check it out here!

Curse of the Singing Cowboys

Growing up, I was aware my dad loved cowboys. I'm not talking the kiddy-type infatuation that most boys have but get over it by adulthood. No, I'm talking the full-fledged,  man-loving (but in a "good" way, so put those pitchforks down, "right-wing-siders"), he-man sorta adoration, usually reserved for baseball players, war heroes and favorite presidents (an oxymoron?). I mean, back in the day (in ancient times when there were only three channels to watch), my dad would seek out any western on TV he could find. Now THAT'S dedication.

In fact, I have a vague recollection that my first Halloween costume was as a cowboy. The following year, I was a bunny. Go figure. To this day, I think that was my mom being bold and putting her stamp of disapproval on everything cowboy. Revenge, one might say, with me being used as the hapless weapon.

For you see, cowboys drove my mom crazy. If she even heard  a single gunshot zinging off an outhouse emanating from the TV, she'd be outta there like a rocket.

One day, lil' Stuie asked Mom, "Mommy, why do you hate cowboys?"

Her face drew tighter than if she'd bitten into a lemon. "Mercy! They're all the same thing. Bang, bang, bang, dusty, dust, dirt, boring." She paused, lost in thought. With a look of distaste, she dredged up what must've been a painful memory for her. "The first movie Poppa took me to when we were dating was a singing cowboy one." Her amazing eyeroll looked as if she'd become suddenly possessed, head swaying back and forth. "MERCY!"

Singing cowboys, I pondered. That was a new one on me. I'd never heard of such a thing and it was clear my mom was done with the topic. But it was nearly impossible for me to correlate the brave sheriff of Palooka, Missouri, singing to the evil Jonzy brothers as they shot up his town.

Later I asked my dad about singing cowboys. He licked his lips (a sure sign it was a topic he adored and was ready to pontificate about) and said, "Those are my favorite, son! There's Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and of course, Roy's loyal, brave horse, Trigger. But your mom doesn't care for them." He chuckled. "Say! Would you like to see one the next time one's on?"

"Sure!" As my dad's eyes lit over my enthusiasm, I began to wonder if I'd just made a big mistake.

Well...I did. 

Sure enough, about two weeks later on a Saturday afternoon, Dad and I sat down in front of the gigantuan black and white monster TV box and prepared for singing cowboys to shoot it out.

In my youthful naiveté, I felt like I'd discovered a heretofore unknown relic, a clue to a mysterious past newly uncovered and passed down from our ancestors. What other hidden film genres awaited discovery for me, I wondered. Tap-dancing ninjas? Crooning monsters?

The credits unrolled over a corny song. Okay, I thought, just the credits, it's about to get good.

But it never did.

Roy Rogers sat astride Trigger, strumming a guitar and singing in a high-pitched voice that hurt my tooth cavity. He wore a frilly, fringe-laden outfit that would've made Liberace jealous.

THIS is our hero? I pondered. My dad grinned ear-to-ear during the entire film. And I didn't want to rain on his parade so I sat stoned faced throughout the nightmare unfolding before my eyes. Very little gunplay. But lotsa--I mean, LOTSA--sissy singing and Vegassy outfits. It soon became clear that Roy was more interested in singing love ballads to his horse than shootin' up bad guys, keepin' the town clean of ne'er-do-wells, and even courtin' Ms. Evans.

That day, my dad pretty much ruined westerns for me. Since then the only westerns I've liked are of the spaghetti variety (besides having tons of style, everyone always looks grungy, filthy, sweaty, and stinky the way people in the Old West were meant to be! And not a single sissy, namby-pamby, Cher wardrobe-raiding, clean-cut, fake cowboy in sight!).

I never did tell my dad that I absolutely hated Roy Rogers. I saw how much it meant to the "kid" inside of him, so like a good "parent," I encouraged that hobby of his. But I always had an excuse (predominately homework, something that couldn't be disputed) as to why I couldn't watch the upcoming matinee with him.

I've not written any westerns, but I suppose my historical fiction ghost tale, Ghosts of Gannaway, comes the closest. At least all of the townspeople of a downtrodden depression-era mining town in Kansas are pretty dirty and living in squalor. Except, of course, for the evil rich jackals up in their ivory mansion (sound familiar?). Heavily researched (the book broke me on ever wanting to do research again), it's a perfect ghost tale to curl up with on these windy, chilly fall nights. Get it here!

The Old Round-About

My pal (since grade school!) and I like to frequent the neighborhood brewery. It's never too crowded, the beer is good, and the bartenders know our name (like Cheers!).

There's a crew of regulars there every Saturday we go, and if we don't know them by name, we secretly give them nick-names (you know, just like in grade school): Slim, The Geek Squad (always playing Dungeons and Dragons) and my personal favorite, Dahmer.

"Dahmer" is particularly scary. Every time he's there, he's sporting a skin tight t-shirt (with what looks like blood stains), is always by himself (probably because by the looks of it, he hasn't washed his hair in over a month), sits alone, muttering, looking at his reflection in the front mirror, undoubtedly looking for his next victim.

But the regular I want to talk about is a self-proclaimed witch who has been a thorn in Doug's side for some time. (We'll call her "Griselda" because if I used her real name, she might hex me). She lives on Doug's street and I quickly figured out they'd been going at it for a while.

One Saturday, she approached Doug and started bragging about how she was responsible for the new speed bump on their street. Of course Doug hates the speed bump, so they argued about it (as "frienemies")at great length.

Another time she called Doug "feral" and yelled at him to wear his damn motorcycle helmet. Once, while sitting at the bar, Doug pompously stated, "The kitchen is my wife's and the rest of the house is mine." Behind the bar (and I'm not sure why she's given privileges to get her own beer; maybe she has the employees under her thrall), Griselda turned around, shaking her head and said "There's SOOOO much wrong with everything you just said." (On this point I had to agree with the witch.)

But, by far, their biggest point of contention is the old roundabout. Everyone who lives on that street were asked if they would support a roundabout (which is ridiculously pointless and would do nothing but back cars up on their quiet, low-traffic, suburban street). Naturally Griselda was all for it. And just like their cat and dog relationship, Doug hated the idea and actually campaigned against it by telling all neighbors to just say "NO."

Flash forward to two Saturdays later...At the brewery Griselda approached Doug again and immediately they renewed the ol' roundabout argument. 

After 20 minutes, I'd had enough of their pointless bickering (like our two opposing political parties trying to change each others' minds).

Exhausted, I finally said, "Are you two STILL going around about about the roundabout?"

Relieved the witch started laughing, I heaved a sigh of relief. And as of now, I STILL haven't been turned into a frog.

Boys and girls, it's probably not a sound idea to piss off a witch.

While on the topic of witches, I'd be shamefully negligent if I didn't hype up my book trilogy, Tex, The Witch Boy. It's got everything: thrills, chills, spills,  mystery, suspense, bullying, witchcraft, romance, humor, horror, fried chicken, and the woes of high school. Get 'em here!

Happy Horrorween!

Hey gang! It's that time of the year! Kids will be getting sick from too much candy, eggs will be splattered, pumpkins destroyed, and I'll be cowering in the darkness while terrifying little varmints pound on my door demanding candy. Also, the Orangeatan in charge is edging us closer and closer to mass insanity and the end of the world.

So let's unlax with some great horror films. You're welcome!

Okay, here are the must not horror films I've seen in 2025 that need to be avoided at all costs: Megan 2 (I refuse to type the cutesy title). I liked the first one, but this second one is like a terrible episode of Westworld in its' last crummy season. The Conjuring: Last Rites? Sigh. Been there, done that. It's time to quit giving these debunked charlatans screen time. While the first Conjuring was great, they've milked the series for all its worth. And why in the world is it 2 hours and 15 minutes long? Don't even get me started on the awful Terrifier series. If gratuitous torture and gore is your bag, have at it. Him is kinda pointless and a bore. And I Know What You Did Last Summer is just a blatant money grab and an insult to fans of the first couple films in the series.

Whew.

Now to the good. By far, the best horror films of the year are Sinners, Weapons, Heretic, and Oddity. Even if you're not a horror film fan, all of these films are fantastic and possibly even classics. Only time will tell. (And after Heretic, I want to see Hugh Grant become the new Vincent Price and forget about all of those namby-pamby rom-coms).

Together was good, if ultimately goofy. Companion is an excellent sci-fi thriller, not really horror. And Bring Her Back is pretty good for the most part.

And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Cobweb. Okay, sure, it's a 2023 film, but I stumbled across it and found it to be the scariest movie of the year. No idea why this hidden gem has eluded me nor why it didn't top peoples' best of the year lists, but watch it.

But finally, the movie I want to tell you about, the one that's not only my fave horror film of the year but maybe favorite film of 2025 is...(drum roll)...Good Boy.

I don't want to give any spoilers, but do you love dogs? Do you love horror films? Then whaddaya waiting for? It's the horror film tailor-made for you! And the lead actor deserves an Oscar (but I think he'd appreciate an Oscar Meyer wiener more. Such a good boy!).

Okay, got that out of my system. You've all got your homework and today is Halloween so you better get busy.

But while I'm thinking of Halloween and wieners, check out my horror (and sometimes dark humorous) book of short stories, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. There's a story called Halloweenie Roast that's perfect for the season. (And if you think I was kidding about cowering in fear at the "angelic" cherubs trick 'r treating at my door, you'd better read it NOW and thank me later.)

Highway Blowout!

Have you guys ever had a blowout on the highway? Now, I'm not talking about the kind where you suffer the after effects of eating Taco Bell, but rather the nerve-ratcheting, terrifying, car-shaking kind where a tire just blows.

Last weekend, I was zooming down the 8-laned highway to visit my daughter (usually just an hour's drive), bringing the car up to 70 mph. I was nearing the exit to a smaller highway, when my car starts shaking.

My first thought, of course, was "hmmm, we're having an earthquake." Then I thought, "wow, they really need to repave this stretch."

Soon enough, it became quite apparent that there was something wrong with my car. I think the people passing me, yelling, honking, and pointing at my tire was my first clue.

Okay, I know what you're supposed to do: pull over on the shoulder and change it (or call triple AAA). But there really wasn't a shoulder to speak of, no room to change it, and I didn't relish the idea of trying to change a tire with thousands of cars racing by me just inches away from my back.

So I did the next best thing: kept driving on it, attempting to make my exit that was within sight, just a quarter mile away. 

"C'mon," I muttered, "we can do it."

Everyone and their father (ESPECIALLY your fathers) will tell you that driving on a flat tire isn't the right solution because you'll ruin your wheel and perhaps do even more damage to the car. But I persisted.

The car rattled, shaking like a blender. Soon a constant thwapping sound seemed to be following me: thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap... Then...a very scary sizzling sound.

Something started to smell; something burning. Then the inevitable metal grinding into pavement sound came next. But here was my exit! So close, yet so far away.

People were shaking their heads, speeding by me, honking, using one-fingered salutes (you know, typical good citizens) while I had no recourse but to carry on, acting in my best oblivious Mister Magoo manner.

Finally...the exit!!! I felt like an idiot as I thwapped onto the exit and then had to wait at the light with a lot of cars in front and in back of me. My plan was just to fix the tire on the ramp (or just off of it) but then like a message from God, a sign beamed in the sunlight. "Discount Tire!" Huzzah! I figured, why not? It's only about a quarter mile away. Meanwhile people are still honking and pointing at my tire as I slowly ground my way toward my lucky break.

I thwapped my way into the Discount Tire parking lot. I just stopped the car, didn't bother with a parking spot. I raced into the store, hoping to get immediate relief, and...there was a line of about five people with tons more sitting around, clearly disgruntled.

When I finally got waited on, the clerk came out to take a look at my tire. And promptly laughed. "Wow," he said, "I can't believe you made it." The tire was nothing but tatters, the wheel resting on the tarmac. But the good news was he didn't think the wheel looked damaged and said I was lucky.

After waiting in the tire store for three hours, I didn't feel so lucky. But I resumed my journey. What normally took one hour took four hours.

Later, I was telling my daughter and her boyfriend of my harrowing experience. I felt validated when the boyfriend said, "Yeah, I would've done the same thing." 

So let this be a lesson to all of you. Your fathers were WRONG about driving on flat tires!

Speaking of making bone-headed decisions, have you guys read my Zach and Zora comical mystery series? Well, why not? Read about Zach, a very dumb but lovable male stripper, who does nothing but make bone-headed decisions which more often than not, makes him a murder suspect leading to his (usually) pregnant, sleuth sister to bail him out of trouble. Check 'em out here!