Blame Circles Back Unexpectedly to Those Assigning It

---

Act I – The Complaint Table at Ruby’s Diner

By nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning, the complaint table at Ruby’s Diner had already reached a level of irritation usually reserved for tax season, raccoon infestations, or church thermostat disputes.

The table itself sat beneath a crooked painting of a riverboat nobody in Sequatchie Crossing had ever actually seen in person. It leaned slightly to the left due to a missing rubber foot and had become, over the years, the unofficial headquarters of civic dissatisfaction.

Eugene “Boot” Barnes sat nearest the coffee warmer, wearing suspenders and a hat that advertised a tractor company that no longer existed.

Across from him sat Clovis Strickland, hunched over a yellow legal pad with arrows and circles already drawn across it.

Mabel Dean Ashcroft sat stiff-backed with her purse in her lap like she expected somebody to steal either it or democracy.

Trixie Jo Bartlett stirred cream into her coffee with the expression of a woman preparing emotionally for nonsense.

Daisy the hound slept beneath the table, one ear twitching every time somebody raised their voice.

“This town,” Boot announced, “has become entirely too dependent on blaming.”

“That’s because nobody takes responsibility anymore,” said Mabel.

“That’s what I just said.”

“No,” Mabel replied. “You blamed blame.”

Clovis looked up carefully.

“Well now hold on,” he said. “There’s a distinction there.”

“There ain’t,” Mabel replied.

Shelley Fawn Wexler arrived carrying three folders and an iced herbal drink that looked medicinal.

“I have documents,” she announced.

“That’s never improved anything,” Boot muttered.

Shelley ignored him and sat down.

“There’s a growing culture of accusation in this town,” she said. “Facebook groups, church committees, zoning meetings, Little League concession stand arguments—”

“That hot dog situation was legitimate,” RT Mullins interrupted from the counter.

“You cannot put mayonnaise directly beside relish,” Coach Freddie Stubblefield barked. “People panic.”

Sheriff Peeler entered just then with Officer Kenny Joe Teeter behind him.

Both men looked exhausted in the specific way law enforcement officers become exhausted after dealing with non-criminal stupidity.

“Morning,” Sheriff Peeler sighed.

“You hear about the blame meeting?” Trixie asked.

Sheriff Peeler stopped walking.

“The what?”

“The accountability review committee,” Shelley said proudly.

Sheriff Peeler slowly removed his hat.

“Y’all formed a committee?”

“Temporary task force,” corrected Shelley.

“That’s worse.”

Clovis tapped his paper.

“We’re tracing community problems to their original sources.”

Sheriff Peeler stared at him.

“That sounds dangerously close to effort.”

Mabel leaned forward.

“We’re tired of folks causing problems then blaming everybody else.”

“And who’s on this committee?” Sheriff Peeler asked.

Mabel pointed around the table.

Sheriff Peeler blinked twice.

“So the people assigning blame are investigating blame.”

“Exactly,” said Shelley.

“That seems unstable.”

Pastor Arnold Peeler entered next, carrying a Bible and two sausage biscuits.

“Morning everybody.”

“We’re solving civic irresponsibility,” Mabel informed him.

Pastor Peeler paused.

“Oh dear.”

“That bad?” Boot asked.

“Every sentence that begins with ‘we’re solving civic irresponsibility’ ends in a casserole argument.”

Daisy suddenly sprang awake when RT tossed a french fry.

She chased it halfway across the diner, then returned not the fry—but a wooden stir stick somebody had dropped earlier.

She placed it directly into RT’s lap.

RT stared down at it.

“Well.”

Mabel pointed immediately.

“See there? That’s symbolism.”

“How’s that symbolism?”

“You throw something out into the world,” she said, “and it comes back to you.”

RT frowned.

“That ain’t my stick.”

Daisy barked once.

Clovis slowly wrote that down.

---

Act II – Town Hall Opens the Inquiry

The Sequatchie Crossing Town Hall smelled faintly of mildew, copier toner, and old civic optimism.

Folding chairs lined the room beneath a banner that still read SPRING FESTIVAL 2018 despite it being nowhere near spring or 2018.

Shelley Fawn Wexler stood near a projector screen adjusting papers while Tiffany Annette Roark livestreamed the gathering from three different angles.

“Folks online are already arguing,” Tiffany whispered excitedly.

“About what?” asked Trixie.

“They don’t know yet.”

“That’s efficient.”

Mister Wade Langston sat near the back polishing his glasses.

Lurleen Davenport handed out lemon squares nobody trusted entirely because they glowed slightly under fluorescent lighting.

Clovis stood at the front beside a whiteboard.

Across the top he had written:

COMMUNITY ACCOUNTABILITY TRACE MAP

Beneath it were arrows, circles, names, and one large question mark.

“It looks like a murder investigation,” Officer Kenny Joe said quietly.

“That’s because Clovis organizes information like a conspiracy theorist who shops at Office Depot,” said Sheriff Peeler.

Clovis cleared his throat.

“We are here to determine,” he announced, “how recurring civic problems originate.”

“Examples?” asked Maggie Sue Dillard.

“Complaining, rumor spreading, meeting disruptions, parking lot feuds, social media accusations, unauthorized petitions, and excessive public indignation.”

“That last one’s vague,” said Boot.

“It’s broad by necessity.”

Pastor Peeler folded his hands.

“And what exactly are we hoping to accomplish?”

“Accountability,” Shelley answered.

Pastor Peeler sighed in a deeply spiritual manner.

“That word always arrives five minutes before trouble.”

Tiffany adjusted her phone.

“We already got eighty-six viewers.”

“Any positive comments?” asked Trixie.

“No.”

Clovis pointed at the board.

“Now. We began tracing last month’s community outrage concerning the pothole situation.”

Boot nodded.

“That was terrible.”

“Yes,” said Clovis. “So we tracked the original complaints.”

He pointed to a chart.

“They originated from a neighborhood petition.”

“Reasonable,” Mabel said.

“Yes. Except the petition delayed repairs because it disputed the approved repair material.”

The room grew quiet.

Clovis continued.

“The repair dispute then required additional county review.”

“That ain’t unusual,” Boot said carefully.

“Correct. However, the review itself was requested by—”

He looked down awkwardly.

“—members of this committee.”

Silence.

Mabel crossed her arms.

“Well maybe the original repairs were bad.”

“They were never started,” Clovis replied.

RT snorted loudly.

“Lord have mercy.”

Shelley adjusted her folders.

“That doesn’t mean we caused the delay.”

Clovis slowly turned another page.

“You also submitted environmental concerns.”

“That creek runoff mattered,” Shelley defended.

“Which creek?” asked Sheriff Peeler.

Shelley hesitated.

“I don’t remember specifically.”

“You wrote the report.”

“It was emotional at the time.”

Tiffany whispered dramatically into her livestream.

“The investigation has entered a complicated phase.”

Mabel leaned toward Clovis.

“You saying we’re responsible for the thing we complained about?”

“I’m saying,” Clovis replied carefully, “the blame appears to loop.”

Boot scratched his chin.

“Like a fan belt.”

“No,” said Trixie. “Like a toilet flushing backward.”

Pastor Peeler stood slowly.

“Folks,” he said gently, “shared responsibility is difficult because it removes the pleasure of indignation.”

“That sounded expensive,” muttered RT.

Before anyone could respond, Daisy wandered into the center aisle carrying another stick.

This one looked older.

She dropped it directly at Mabel’s feet.

Mabel stared at it suspiciously.

“What’s this one mean?”

“Probably yours,” Boot said.

---

Act III – The Porch Tribunal

By Wednesday evening, the front porch of Mister Wade Langston’s hardware store had become the unofficial courthouse of Sequatchie Crossing.

Rocking chairs lined the porch.

Sweet tea sweated in mason jars.

Arguments drifted through the humid air like gnats.

Chester Ray Blevins had brought printed copies of Clovis’s diagrams.

“That man uses too many arrows,” Chester Ray observed.

“You can’t trust a chart with circles,” Boot added. “That’s how government starts.”

Mabel adjusted her glasses.

“Well I still say some people are more responsible than others.”

“Sure,” said Trixie. “But apparently the rest of us ain’t innocent either.”

Clovis sat quietly holding three notebooks.

“You still tracing things?” asked RT.

“Yes.”

“You finding joy in it?”

“No.”

“That means it’s probably accurate.”

Shelley pointed at another chart.

“What about the Christmas parade incident?”

The porch immediately fell silent.

Nobody in town liked discussing the Christmas parade incident because too many people had technically participated in causing it.

Clovis reluctantly flipped pages.

“The original complaint concerned parade traffic.”

“Correct,” said Mabel.

“Then citizens requested route changes.”

“Reasonable,” Boot said.

“Then additional float permits.”

“Yes.”

“Then safety inspections.”

“Necessary,” Shelley insisted.

“Then horse restrictions.”

“That mule bit somebody,” RT muttered.

“It bit a trombone,” Trixie corrected.

Clovis rubbed his forehead.

“Eventually the parade became so delayed by revisions and objections that it occurred after New Year’s.”

Everybody looked away.

Pastor Peeler rocked slowly in his chair.

“The Book of James speaks at length about the tongue creating fires.”

“Didn’t mention parade permits though,” said Boot.

“Scripture assumes common sense.”

“That was optimistic.”

Officer Kenny Joe approached carrying a bag of gas station peanuts.

“You folks heard what’s happening online?”

“Afraid to ask,” said Sheriff Peeler.

“People are blaming the blame committee.”

Shelley looked offended.

“That’s unfair.”

Boot burst out laughing so hard he nearly spilled tea.

“Well now that’s poetry.”

Tiffany Annette arrived breathless.

“The community Facebook page has split into factions.”

“How many?”

“Five currently.”

“What are they called?” Trixie asked.

Tiffany checked her phone.

“Citizens Against Excessive Blaming.”

“Reasonable.”

“Concerned Residents Against Citizens Against Excessive Blaming.”

“Oh dear.”

“Friends of Responsible Accountability.”

“Of course.”

“Neutral Observers For Civility.”

“That one won’t last,” said Sheriff Peeler.

“And another group called WE TOLD Y’ALL SO.”

Boot slapped his knee.

“That’s my people right there.”

Daisy trotted up carrying the same stick from Town Hall.

She dropped it directly beside Clovis.

Clovis stared at it.

“That dog’s making a point.”

“She’s more organized than this committee,” Sheriff Peeler replied.

Mabel suddenly squinted.

“Wait a minute.”

Everybody looked at her.

“You remember who first demanded the pothole petition?”

Silence.

Then slowly all eyes turned toward Boot Barnes.

Boot froze.

“Well now hold on.”

“You absolutely did,” Trixie said.

“You stood outside Ruby’s and called the road ‘a death trap for transmissions.’”

“I was emotional.”

“You printed flyers,” Chester Ray added.

“You asked me for colored ink.”

Boot shifted uncomfortably.

“That was civic participation.”

Clovis quietly wrote another note.

The circle tightened.

---

Act IV – Sunday Preparations and Historical Revisions

By Thursday afternoon the Fellowship Hall at Mercy Ridge Church had transformed into a strategic planning center for people increasingly uncomfortable with their own memories.

Maggie Sue Dillard arranged casseroles while Sister Lila Mae “Hallelujah” Pruitt declared spiritual warfare against “circular foolishness.”

“That’s what this is,” Sister Lila Mae announced. “A loop of human pride.”

RT whispered to Coach Freddie.

“She always sounds like she’s preaching directly at weather systems.”

Pastor Peeler stood near a chalkboard attempting diplomacy.

“We are not here to shame anyone.”

“Some folks deserve mild shame,” Mabel muttered.

“Mild shame is how major shame gets funded,” Pastor replied.

Clovis pinned additional documents to a bulletin board.

Now the diagrams stretched nearly wall-to-wall.

Shelley looked increasingly alarmed.

“How far back does this go?”

Clovis hesitated.

“Potentially years.”

“That ain’t healthy,” Sheriff Peeler replied.

“We traced three zoning disputes, two festival cancellations, the library mural conflict, and the gazebo committee.”

The room groaned collectively at mention of the gazebo committee.

“That thing almost ended marriages,” said Trixie.

“It was supposed to be octagonal,” Boot defended.

“YOU voted rectangular,” Mabel snapped.

“You said rectangles promoted fiscal stability!”

“They do!”

Daisy barked twice from beneath a folding table.

Nobody knew why, but it felt judgmental.

Tiffany Annette kept recording reactions.

“This is incredible content.”

“Please stop calling public humiliation content,” Sheriff Peeler sighed.

Clovis flipped another page.

“Further evidence suggests several recurring community critics repeatedly approved the same decisions later criticized publicly.”

Shelley frowned.

“That sounds impossible.”

“It’s documented.”

“Could documents be wrong?”

Chester Ray looked horrified.

“Don’t say things like that around printed paper.”

Pastor Peeler raised both hands.

“Friends. Perhaps the larger issue is not who caused what.”

“That’s easy to say when it ain’t attached to your name,” Mabel replied.

Pastor nodded calmly.

“Yes. Which is why grace becomes difficult.”

Silence drifted through the Fellowship Hall.

Even RT stopped chewing briefly.

Then Boot sighed heavily.

“Well. I suppose most disasters in town do involve the same thirty people rotating positions.”

“Thirty-two,” corrected Clovis.

“Depends if you count Doug Doughboy separately during softball season,” RT added.

Doug Doughboy Teeter looked up from a brownie tray.

“I heard that.”

The church kitchen door swung open and Evelyn Grace Tipton entered carrying additional tea pitchers.

“What’s the latest?”

“We appear to all be each other’s problem,” Trixie answered.

Evelyn nodded slowly.

“That does sound local.”

---

Act V – The Sheriff’s Office Investigation Board

Friday morning found Sheriff Peeler regretting nearly every life decision that had led him into public service.

The sheriff’s office briefing room now contained Clovis’s full blame map pinned across an entire wall.

String connected names to meetings.

Meetings connected to petitions.

Petitions connected to complaints.

Complaints connected back to the original people filing them.

Officer Kenny Joe stared at the board in awe.

“It’s like one of them crime shows.”

“There ain’t been a crime,” Sheriff Peeler said.

“Feels criminal.”

Dr. Neil Cowgill entered carrying a blood pressure monitor.

“I was told several citizens may require medical supervision.”

“That’s preventative,” said Sheriff Peeler.

Mabel pointed aggressively at one section.

“Explain THIS.”

Clovis sighed.

“That concerns the annual Fall Heritage Festival parking crisis.”

“That was somebody else’s fault entirely.”

“Yes ma’am. Originally we thought so.”

“And?”

“The alternate parking plan was proposed by—”

“Mabel Dean Ashcroft,” Tiffany read aloud dramatically.

Mabel froze.

“That ain’t accurate.”

“You signed it.”

“That signature’s under protest.”

“There’s no protest notation.”

“There was emotional protest.”

Boot nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

“Oh this is rich.”

“You ain’t innocent either,” Trixie reminded him.

“That’s becoming apparent.”

Pastor Peeler examined the chart thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said quietly, “Scripture speaks often about planks in our own eyes.”

RT nodded.

“And splinters.”

“Correct.”

“Seems like everybody here’s got lumber.”

Sheriff Peeler leaned back in his chair.

“You know what this reminds me of?”

“What?”

“That time Daisy chased her tail for forty-five minutes then barked at herself for causing the noise.”

As if summoned by symbolism itself, Daisy wandered into the room carrying a branch nearly twice her size.

She proudly dropped it at Sheriff Peeler’s boots.

Sheriff stared downward.

“Well I’ll be.”

Officer Kenny Joe laughed.

“She brought the blame back.”

“No,” Pastor Peeler said softly.

“She brought back what somebody else threw.”

The room quieted again.

Clovis slowly circled Daisy’s name on his notepad.

Shelley shook her head.

“I still think some people contributed more heavily.”

“Maybe,” Pastor Peeler replied. “But shared responsibility rarely divides neatly.”

Mabel crossed her arms stubbornly.

“Well I ain’t apologizing to everybody.”

“No one asked you to.”

“That feels suspicious.”

---

Act VI – The Community Listening Session

Saturday evening’s Community Listening Session at the old gymnasium began exactly the way all community listening sessions begin:

With folding chairs.

Bad acoustics.

And a microphone nobody trusted.

Coach Freddie Stubblefield supervised setup while muttering about “civilized behavior,” which everybody interpreted as optimism bordering on delusion.

Shelley stood at the podium.

“We are gathered,” she announced, “to openly discuss patterns of blame in Sequatchie Crossing.”

Immediately three people spoke at once.

“That’s too loud already,” RT muttered.

Tiffany livestreamed from the bleachers.

Online comments rolled rapidly.

WHO APPROVED THIS MEETING
SAME PEOPLE CAUSING THE PROBLEM
LOOK AT BOOT’S FACE LOL

Boot squinted at Tiffany’s phone.

“People online have gotten mean.”

“You helped invent that,” Trixie reminded him.

Pastor Peeler stepped forward.

“Perhaps we begin by acknowledging that all communities are interconnected.”

“That sounds socialist,” yelled somebody from the back.

“No,” Pastor replied patiently. “That’s literally towns.”

Clovis approached the microphone holding his final diagram.

“This investigation reveals that responsibility repeatedly circles back to original critics themselves.”

The crowd murmured uneasily.

“Examples include—”

“No examples,” Mabel interrupted quickly.

“Specificity inflames people.”

“You started this.”

“Yes but I’m adapting.”

Sheriff Peeler leaned against the wall.

“This whole town treats accountability like dodgeball.”

RT nodded.

“Everybody throws. Nobody catches.”

At that exact moment Daisy ran across the gym chasing a tennis ball.

She caught it.

Then returned directly to the person who had thrown it.

The room fell silent.

Even Clovis looked startled.

“Well there it is,” Boot whispered.

Daisy sat proudly wagging her tail.

The tennis ball rested at the feet of Doug Doughboy Teeter.

Doug blinked.

“I was just playing.”

Pastor Peeler smiled gently.

“That’s usually how it starts.”

Mabel rubbed her forehead.

“I dislike how symbolic this dog’s becoming.”

“She’s doing better than the committee,” Sheriff replied.

Shelley stepped away from the microphone.

“So what now?”

Clovis looked around the gymnasium.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“That’s the most trustworthy thing you’ve said all week,” Trixie answered.

---

Act VII – The Revival of Old Arguments

Sunday morning church services across Sequatchie Crossing carried unusual tension.

Not spiritual tension.

Administrative tension.

The dangerous kind.

At Mercy Ridge Church, Pastor Arnold Peeler stood before the congregation while Sister Lila Mae played softly on the piano.

Boot sat beside Mabel in a silence usually associated with neighboring countries before sanctions.

Clovis occupied an entire pew with charts.

Trixie whispered:

“If he unfolds one more diagram I’m setting it on fire.”

Pastor Peeler adjusted his glasses.

“Today,” he began, “we discuss shared burdens.”

RT immediately whispered:

“Oh no.”

Pastor continued.

“In every community there exists a temptation to separate ourselves from responsibility.”

Mabel stared downward.

“We say THEY caused this.”

Boot shifted uncomfortably.

“We say THEY ruined that.”

Shelley folded her arms.

“But communities are rarely damaged by strangers alone.”

The church remained quiet.

“Most often,” Pastor said gently, “the trouble comes from circles we ourselves helped create.”

Daisy wandered down the aisle dramatically for no apparent reason.

She stopped beside Boot.

Then she placed the tennis ball directly into his lap.

The congregation erupted laughing.

Boot held the ball awkwardly.

“Well apparently I’m the sermon now.”

Pastor smiled.

“Sometimes illustrations arrive naturally.”

After church, the congregation spilled into the gravel parking lot where arguments resumed almost immediately.

“That sermon was targeted,” Mabel accused.

“It absolutely was not,” Pastor replied.

“You looked directly at me.”

“I look at everybody.”

“Judgmentally.”

“That’s just my face.”

Clovis approached holding another notebook.

“I’ve made a discovery.”

Everybody groaned collectively.

“What now?” Sheriff Peeler asked.

“The original online complaints about negativity in town were themselves extremely negative.”

Silence.

Then Boot slowly began laughing again.

“You mean the anti-complaining people complained?”

“Extensively.”

Trixie slapped her knee.

“That’s the most Sequatchie thing I’ve ever heard.”

Shelley looked horrified.

“We created recursive outrage.”

“That sounds medical,” RT muttered.

“No,” Clovis replied sadly. “It’s cultural.”

---

Act VIII – The Porch Reckoning

Sunday evening found nearly the entire recurring population of Sequatchie Crossing gathered once again on Mister Wade Langston’s porch.

The sun sank low over the valley.

Cicadas screamed from the trees.

Nobody felt entirely innocent anymore.

Mister Wade rocked slowly.

“Well,” he said. “Seems we traced blame all the way back to ourselves.”

“Not entirely,” Mabel argued weakly.

“Mostly though,” Trixie replied.

Sheriff Peeler removed his hat.

“I’ve worked law enforcement twenty-two years. Half the trouble in town comes from folks trying too hard to prove somebody else wrong.”

“Other half?” asked RT.

“People reacting to it.”

Clovis stared at his completed charts.

“All these lines just keep circling.”

Pastor Peeler nodded.

“That’s human nature.”

Shelley looked genuinely tired.

“I thought accountability would simplify things.”

“It usually complicates them first,” Pastor answered.

Boot finally stood up.

Everybody looked toward him.

He removed his hat slowly.

“Well,” he said, “I reckon that’s all of us.”

Nobody spoke.

The porch creaked softly.

“That pothole thing,” Boot admitted, “I probably escalated that.”

“You absolutely escalated it,” Mabel said.

“And maybe the parade thing.”

“Yes.”

“And perhaps the gazebo.”

“That was definitely you,” Trixie replied.

Boot nodded.

“Point is… most of us been throwing sticks at each other so long we forgot they come back.”

Daisy suddenly trotted onto the porch carrying the oldest stick yet.

She dropped it directly into the center of the group.

Everybody stared at it.

Pastor Peeler smiled softly.

“There’s the whole sermon right there.”

---

Act IX – The New Committee Proposal

Monday morning arrived with suspicious calm.

Which meant trouble was nearby.

At Ruby’s Diner, the usual crowd gathered again.

Coffee steamed.

Biscuits disappeared.

Tiffany Annette refreshed comments online.

“So,” Shelley asked cautiously, “what happens to the blame committee?”

“Disband it,” Sheriff Peeler answered instantly.

“Burn the paperwork,” RT added.

“Archive the charts,” Clovis protested weakly.

“No,” said everybody together.

Mabel stirred her coffee.

“We did learn something though.”

“That we’re exhausting?” asked Trixie.

“Beyond that.”

Pastor Peeler smiled.

“Perhaps humility.”

Boot snorted.

“Let’s not get unrealistic.”

Laughter rolled around the diner.

Even Clovis smiled slightly.

Sheriff Peeler pointed his fork around the table.

“You know what this town actually needs?”

“Nobody say another committee,” RT warned.

“A pause,” Sheriff answered.

Silence followed.

“That’s impossible,” Shelley whispered.

“It may be.”

Pastor Peeler leaned back calmly.

“Still worth attempting.”

Daisy wandered beneath the table chewing thoughtfully on the famous stick.

Then she dropped it once more.

Directly at Clovis.

Clovis picked it up slowly.

Everybody waited.

Finally he sighed.

“Well.”

“What?” asked Boot.

“I think the dog solved the investigation before we did.”

“How?”

Clovis turned the stick in his hands.

“You throw blame out.”

Everybody listened quietly.

“It circles around.”

Pastor Peeler nodded.

“And eventually returns to the hand that launched it.”

Boot grinned slowly.

“Dang.”

Trixie raised her coffee cup.

“To shared foolishness.”

“To shared foolishness,” the table echoed.

Outside, Sequatchie Crossing carried on exactly as it always had.

Porches creaked.

Rumors traveled.

Committees formed.

Criticisms floated through the valley air.

But for at least one morning, the town understood something unusual:

Most blame did not travel in straight lines.

It traveled in circles.

And usually arrived back home carrying teeth marks from Daisy the hound.

---

Epilogue – The Archived Diagram

Three weeks later, Clovis’s accountability charts were quietly stored inside a filing cabinet at Town Hall beneath outdated flood maps and a folder labeled BEE INCIDENT.

Nobody formally referenced the investigation again.

Officially.

Unofficially, however, residents became noticeably cautious before assigning blame publicly.

Not wiser exactly.

Just nervous.

Whenever conversations grew overly accusatory, somebody inevitably muttered:

“Careful now. That thing circles back.”

The phrase spread through town with alarming speed.

Boot used it during a church budget argument.

Mabel used it during a casserole dispute.

Sheriff Peeler used it during a heated disagreement involving lawn chairs at the softball field.

Even RT used it after accidentally criticizing his own previous Facebook comment without realizing it.

Daisy remained entirely unconcerned.

She simply continued returning sticks to whoever threw them.

Which, according to Pastor Peeler, made her the most spiritually mature resident in Sequatchie Crossing.

Nobody argued with that.

Mostly because they were afraid the blame might somehow come back around again.

---

Disclaimer

The citizens, dogs, committees, accusations, investigations, potholes, gazebo disputes, parade delays, emotionally protestable signatures, symbolic sticks, recursive outrage, and casserole diplomacy depicted in this story are entirely fictional.

Any resemblance to real people, towns, public meetings, social media arguments, or church parking lot confrontations is purely coincidental and probably being discussed online already.

No actual accountability committees were harmed during the writing of this story, though several fictional committees became emotionally overextended.

Daisy the hound remains innocent of all allegations and continues to return objects to their original owners without prejudice.

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At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.

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