I am walking my blind dog in a public park. We are on one of those community tracks.

People exercise everywhere. Joggers. Walkers. Cyclists. One woman is power walking, wearing earbuds, having a violently animated phone conversation with an invisible person.

My dog, Marigold, and I have been walking a lot lately. It’s not easy, walking. We have very few “good walks” inasmuch as walking in a straight line is impossible when you can’t see. So mainly, we walk in zig-zags until both of us are dizzy and frustrated and one of us needs to sit down on a bench and use expletives.

When I near the tennis courts, I meet a woman with a little girl. They are on a bench, too. The girl sees my dog and she is ecstatic.

“Look at the pretty dog!” the kid says.

So I introduce the child to Marigold. Immediately the child senses there is something different about this animal.

“What’s wrong with her?” the kid asks.

“She is blind,” I say.

The child squats until she is eye level with

Marigold. “How did this happen?”

I’m not sure what I should say here. So I keep it brief.

“Someone wasn’t nice to her,” I say.

The kid is on the verge of tears. “What do you mean?”

This is where things get tricky. I don’t know how much of Marigold’s biography I should reveal. Because the truth is, Marigold was struck with a heavy object by a man in Mississippi who thought she made a poor hunting hound.

“She was abused,” I say.

The little girl’s face breaks open. The girl presses her nose against Marigold’s dead eyes. She feels the dog’s fractured skull with her hands.

“Oh, sweet baby,” the child says.

That’s when I notice the mottled scars on the child’s neck. They look like major burns. I say nothing about this, but the wounds are…

You’re a farmer in the middle ages. We’re talking 1000 A.D.-ish. Actually, they don’t call you a farmer but a “yeoman,” which is an antiquated way of saying, “you shovel excrement for a living.”

Maybe you live in Scotland. Maybe France. England, Portugal, Africa, wherever. Either way, your life is unfulfilling.

Sure, you have a great family. You have great friends. You are even allowed to drink beer for breakfast because this is what everyone does during the middle ages, even clergy and toddlers. So that’s pretty great.

Even so, underneath it all, there is something going on inside you. You can’t explain what you’re experiencing.

Centuries later, psychologists will invent clinical names for your feelings. They’ll call it a major “climacteric,” or the “need for self-actualization,” or God forbid, a “midlife crisis.”

But in the middle ages there are no psychological doctors. There are only doctors whose entire medical practice consists of drilling holes into people’s skulls in hopes of curing a runny nose.

Still, you

can’t explain this pulling sensation inside. It’s tugging you somewhere. But where? You keep wondering whether you were made for more than just paying bills. Weren’t you were made to be more than just a serf?

And isn’t life about more than just pleasure and fun? Having fun is great. But fun doesn’t exactly make your cup runneth all over the placeth.

You have a few options for spiritual guidance. You could visit your local monastery, but the monks will just instruct you to say 25 Hail Marys and call it a day. Likewise, you could visit the doctor, who just bought a new cordless drill.

Then, one day you hear about this place in northwestern Spain, hundreds of miles from your home. It’s a cathedral, built upon the grave an apostle.

People from all over the world are traveling to this sacred…

I haven’t always been a morning person. God knows. When I was a young man I was anti-morning-people. Morning people were insane. My mother was a morning person.

As a boy, I’d awake to find my mother already in the living room, snuggled beneath a lamp, where she’d been reading for hours. The cat in her lap would just stare at me with moral disapproval.

“There will come a day,” Mama would say, “when you won’t sleep as good as you do now.”

My mother evidently put a curse on me. Because I get up early now. I didn’t CHOOSE to begin rising at 4 a.m. every morning. I have no reason to awake early. I am not a farmer. But my brain decided, years ago, that no matter what time I go to bed, I’ll be up with the chickens.

At first I resisted early rising. I did NOT want to be the kind of dork who got up at 4 a.m. to water ferns and take

inventory of his commemorative Dale Earnhardt stamp collection. But there you are.

Thus, each morning, my wife arises at 8:30 a.m. to find me on the porch, tapping away on a laptop. The cat on my lap just stares at her.

Also, I’m not sure when I started cooking, but I do that now, too. Lately, I’ve become the interim cook in our household. I’m not a great cook, mind you. My specialty dish is something my wife calls “chicken sushi.”

But I’ve found myself enjoying the culinary side of life. I read cookbooks for fun. I watch cooking shows and use words like “al dente” with a straight face.

Last night for supper, I made chicken and dumplings. A few nights before, scalloped potato casserole and banana cream pie.

My wife—God love her—who actually KNOWS how to cook, is gracious with my gastronomical…

Wake up early. Saturday morning. Leap out of bed. Oh, the bliss.

You sprint to the television set, racing your sister.

Last one’s a rotten egg.

You are still wearing Superman pajamas. Beneath your Man-of-Steel PJs, you’re wearing Batman skivvies, which is a slight conflict of interest, but you make it work.

You slap the power button on TV. The old Zenith console warms up. The television is cased in a faux wooden cabinet, with warped oak-grain veneer from a bygone Dr. Pepper someone once placed atop the television, even though this someone’s mother told them to NEVER set ANYTHING atop the TV, not that we’re naming names here.

So anyway, you’d sit on the floor, before the old tube, criss-crossed, which we used to call sitting “Indian style.” (No hate mail!)

Cartoons blared. It was undefiled rapture. Until your mom yelled from the other room, “Don’t sit so close to the TV or you’ll hurt your eyes!”

But you HAD to sit close.

They were playing all the greats today. Bugs, Daffy, Elmer, Porky, Marvin the Martian.

Yosemite Sam growled, “Say your prayers, varmint!” Speedy Gonzales would be chirping, “Ándale, ándale!” Wile E. Coyote and the bird were hard after it.

Then came Yogi and Boo Boo, “Smarter than the average bear.” George, Jane, Judy, and Elroy. Fred, Barney, Wilma, Betty, and Mister Slate.

After cartoons, you’d eat a wholesome breakfast of Rice Krispies. Rice Krispies had the same dietary value of No. 4 Styrofoam packing pellets. But it was okay. Your mom increased the nutritive value by topping your cereal with liberal spoonfuls of refined white sugar.

Next, it was time to go outside and play.

Mainly, we played Army Man. We used imitation firearms, pump rifle BB guns, and Andy’s dad even had a real bayonet from World War I.

We used these items…

Q: Sean, what your views are on politics, so we know where you stand?

A: My thoughts are, there is nothing more terrifying than waking up and realizing that your high-school class is now running the world.

Q: Sean, who are your literary heroes?

A: Gary Larson.

Q: Do you believe that all denominations will go to heaven?

A: When I was a kid, the Sunday school teacher said that when the Lord returned, with the last trumpet, all the Baptists would be raptured, and I would remain here on earth.

“You don’t want to be left behind, do you?” my teacher would say. “You’d be stuck in a world without evangelicals. Doesn’t that sound awful?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I’d reply. “Just awful.”

Q: So Sean, what DO you believe?

A: I believe I’ll have another beer.

Q: Dear Sean, are you rich? I looked your net worth up on the internet and it said you were several million dollars.

A: Pardon me while I laugh so hard ramen noodle soup comes out of my nose. I am

not rich. I am a writer.

Q: So you’re saying writers don’t make much?

A: What do you call a writer with health insurance?

Q: What?

A: Married.

Q: Dear Sean, I too want to become a professional writer. It has been my lifelong dream to earn a living doing what I love. I am looking for a field of specialization (fiction, non-fiction, etc). I wanted to ask you, in your experience, what kind of writing pays the best?

A: Ransom notes.

Q: Hi, Sean. I am wanting to get into writing. What is it like to be a writer?

A: I can’t put it into words.

Q: I’m an English teacher, and I wanted to ask you what you think of the current state of our country, when it comes to reading and literature. Fifty…