I miss everything about my Red Man now. Even the picture on the bag of the Native American who has a somewhat sad look on his face. Sometimes he would come out of the bag and talk to me. I could relate to him. He would listen to me tell him about all of my problems while I chewed my cud into nothing, and not say a word. He wouldn't judge me, or get bored with me; just listen. His face is all it took for me to open up about anything; everything. He was a good man, a quiet man, a reserved man. I am glad I saved the last bag I had, so I can keep looking at this man's face when I'm lonely with no one to talk to.