I was 14, I think, when I got my first byline in a newspaper. It was a story about the Blakely Packers, a youth football team in my hometown, and the article appeared in the Early County News, which, fortunately for me, would publish a lot of my stories over the next seven or eight years.

Hi everyone. It’s Milly the springer spaniel here. I’m filling in this week because Mitch, the bald-headed guy who lives at my house, says he’s too busy to write anything.

I enjoy a good nap. I'm not afraid to admit that.

Monday was the dreaded April 15, Tax Day, and if you still haven’t managed to get that return in, don’t be surprised if a friendly government agent shows up to offer you a lovely vacation of three to five years in Leavenworth.

One of the greatest inventions of the last 50 years has to be the credit card reader that some genius decided to install on gasoline pumps so that one could fill up their car without having to step foot inside the store.

I usually dread my annual physical. I’m not crazy about doctors, and I’m not crazy about the nurses who work for doctors and their sadistic enjoyment of sticking people with needles.

If you wanted to watch John Jacobs’ face light up, just ask him about his grandchildren.

I have always assumed that Milly, the liver-and-white springer spaniel that lives at my house, loves me. She happily greets me at the door when I get home. She licks my face. She curls up next to me in bed when I read at night. She’s lying at my feet now as I write this on my laptop.