Dragnet, a hugely popular “true crime” TV show in the ’50s and ’60s that was the prototype for today’s hugely popular “true crime” TV shows, always began with the announcement that “the story you are about to see is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.”

In this case, the names are being omitted to protect the innocent, a few good people who have shown me unsolicited kindness in these troubled times. It’s not that I don’t want to drum up business for them. Everyone needs all the business they can get these days, but they don’t need a bunch of folks sniffing around for discounts and freebies. I don’t know if it’s always true that “no good deed goes unpunished,” but I don’t want to help it come true, either.

The first hurrah goes to the manager, or perhaps assistant manager, of the drug store that I regularly patronize. I was looking for the store brand of the sinus wash I use (icky to mention, perhaps, but this stuff really works) and there wasn’t any on the shelf. The first employee I saw happened to be her, and I asked if they had any more. After ascertaining that they didn’t, she instructed the cashier to sell me the name brand for the store brand price. Maybe she was just following the chain’s policy, although the cashier didn’t look as if he were aware of it, but it saved me four bucks nonetheless.

Then there’s my ophthalmologist, as personable a fellow as you would ever want to meet. After my most recent appointment, I approached the checkout desk with a slightly heavy heart. I knew the checkup was essential, but I also knew it would be a bit of a hit to my modest budget.

“You’re all set,” chirped the young woman behind the counter.

When I said, “Excuse me?” with a stunned look on my face, she handed me my statement. The balance was zero.

That was also what my tax preparer charged me after I asked him to do my most recent return on short notice, following some disagreeable communications, if you can forgive the redundancy, with the IRS. When he dropped off my completed forms, there was no invoice in the envelope. I emailed him - twice - about what I took to be his oversight, and he never replied. We’re both classical music buffs, and I’ve seen him at concerts a couple of times since. He’s never mentioned the subject, even indirectly, a manifestation of grace to match his generosity.

Last fall, I had to get new blinds for the four, full-length windows in my dining room. I bought standard-size replacements to save money, and they didn’t quite reach all the way to the sills. This was only an esthetic problem until the cold weather set in, when I decided that putting decorative bricks in the gaps would be both attractive and practical.

I’m not a home handyman by any stretch of the imagination, so I felt a bit at sea when I visited the building supply place that had been recommended to me. Rather than try to describe what I wanted, I had brought along a leftover brick from another project (stabilizing a kitty condo, if you must know).

“How many did you need?” asked the woman in the office. Judging from her expression when I said, “A dozen or so,” I suspect they were accustomed to dealing in somewhat larger quantities.

She waved a hand toward the window. “We have lots of flats of samples in the lot,” she said. “Just help yourself.”

And when it turned out that one of my windows, for some reason known only to the builder of the house, was half an inch narrower than the others, this same woman got it trimmed it for me, also for free. If I ever do become a home handyman, I know where I’m going for supplies.

Last, but infinitely far from least, are the veterinary professionals, doctors and aides alike, whose month-long efforts saved the life of Amelia, my 16-year-old cat, after a raccoon tried to remove the left side of her head in late September. Not only did their compassion and skill truly put the “care” in “animal care,” but the total tab, as best I can tell, was about a quarter of what it easily could have been, and which I couldn’t possibly have afforded.

Thanks to them, I still have all three of my beloved felines. And thanks to everyone I’ve mentioned, I have a bit higher regard for my own species, too.

Jeff Mortimer is a freelance writer and editor who lives in Ann Arbor.