By a Guy Who Still Believes the World Isn’t Entirely Mad
Whilst walking the other day, I started thinking—never a good idea, but there we are—about how life changes. Sometimes softly, like the slow drift of autumn leaves. Other times, it hits you like a falling badger. And if you’ve never had a badger fall on you, imagine a hairy bowling ball with teeth and an attitude. Anyway, if I had my way, I’d still be in England, in that little house with my kids… though perhaps not with my ex-wife. That particular “life change” goes in the same drawer as getting rid of flared jeans—one of those changes humanity can all be quietly thankful for.
Now, the world today? How it has changed and it’s gone completely bonkers. Protests in Europe, shouting matches in America, and everyone convinced they’re fighting the same noble struggle. They’re not. The British, especially, seem tense about it all—and fair enough. You can’t squeeze 70 million people onto an island the size of a hummingbird’s lunchbox without a few nerves showing. Some say “Britishness” is being diluted, that cities don’t look the same anymore. I can’t prove that, but I do have an opinion. Of course I do.
See, I was a British immigrant once. Still a British citizen, technically. When I first moved there, I genuinely loved it—the people, the history, the dry humor that sounds like an insult but isn’t (mostly). I adored the English, admired the Scots, tolerated the Welsh, and thoroughly enjoyed the Irish—especially their beer. I wanted to be part of that world. That’s what immigration should be, really. Move somewhere because you love it and respect it. Not because you want to change it to “your former country MK II”. Of course, some people don’t have a choice—war, disaster, politicians—but even then, respect for your hosts, the people there, should be the bare minimum.
Meanwhile, in the good ol’ U.S. of A., immigration has turned into a sport where everyone loses. Sure, deal with the criminals—no sane person wants cartels and violent gangs setting up shop next to the local Dairy Queen—but demonizing entire groups? That’s not patriotism; that’s evil with better PR. It’s the sort of thing that makes Satan sit up and say, “Hey, that’s my line!”
But not everything’s dreadful. A buddy of mine just clawed his way out of depression, and that’s a win worth celebrating. The guy’s the human equivalent of a bar jukebox—always laughing, always with a story—and to see him go silent was awful. For a while, I thought I’d lose him. But he’s back now, cracking jokes, grinning like a man who’s just found an extra fry at the bottom of the bag. Suddenly the world feels like it’s got its color back.
Now, if there’s one constant I refuse to change, it’s my dog, Georgie. He’s been my sidekick for six years—small, stubborn, and far too clever for his own good. When I first brought him home from Pennsylvania to Virginia, he sat in his little box, looking adorable—until he dropped a bomb so foul it could’ve cleared Congress. I nearly blacked out, rolled down the windows, dashed into a Walmart, and gave him the world’s quickest bath in the men’s room. Bought new towels, a fresh box, and swore never to trust that innocent face again.
Through the pandemic, it was just me and Georgie in our 600-square-foot apartment. I had a single bed, which he treated like it was his. Every night, he’d sneak up, sigh heavily, and fall asleep pressed against me like a hot water bottle with fur. We’d walk at dawn, just us, the mist, and the odd squirrel giving us the side-eye. My neighbors and I even came up with a dog-care plan in case someone got sick. There were charts, schedules, Q&A sessions—it was like NASA Mission Control, but with Labradors. Meanwhile, the dogs couldn’t care less. They tore around, jumped in the pool, and barked at invisible squirrels while we humans congratulated ourselves on being responsible adults.
Then, last week, I got the flu. Proper man-flu. The kind that makes you think your obituary should be drafted immediately. Fever, vomiting, joints that felt like rusted hinges—the full package. My girlfriend, bless her, lives in Texas and texted every five minutes to check if I was still breathing. She’s the kindest, funniest woman you could ever meet—the type who says “y’all” and somehow makes it sound like love. But after the 237th “are you okay, honey?”, I had to mute my phone before I threw it out the window.
Georgie, however, went full Florence Nightingale. He wouldn’t leave my side, not even to bark at the neighbor’s cat—a cat so smug it could run for office. When we tried to walk, Georgie did his business, then turned around and dragged me home. Even when eating, he’d glance up mid-chew, checking if I was still alive. Honestly, it was sweet—if you ignored the smell of chicken kibble and my slow mental collapse.
But I’m fine now. Back on my feet. My girlfriend’s forgiven me for disappearing, Georgie’s stopped acting like my nurse, and the squirrels are once again mocking us from the trees. The world may be a madhouse—run by squirrels, probably—but between a loyal dog and a woman who cares, it all feels… alright.
Maybe even great.
Thanks for dropping by my little corner of the world. If the story gave you a chuckle or made you pause and think, a like would be mighty kind. And if you’re feeling adventurous, well, hitting that subscribe button is like pulling up a chair and staying a while—always room for one more.
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A Kings 
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