The Art of Shopping for a New Dog

A good roommate is like a priceless piece of art, especially the four-legged kind. A few weeks ago I adopted a new dog, Peetey, who is quickly settling into his role as best friend. The search for Peetey started the day school was over. I found that adopting a new dog can be harder than buying a car. At least autos have car-fax reports.

I began my search online. Websites like petfinder.com help to provide a launching pad for pet searches. You can hunt by breed, location, age, and gender. I quickly learned that there are more available dogs out there than Americans on unemployment. Rescue groups post profiles about the dogs. You can see photos and videos as well as find out if the dogs are housebroken, spade/neutered, and good with kids or mailmen. From there you can check out the rescue group’s website and find even more available dogs. It’s heartbreaking how many homeless dogs there are. However, these groups would rather part with the crown jewels than one of their precious pooches.

Off the bat, I found a dog of the pug/beagle variety like the late, great Starbuck, my previous dog who passed on in January. First, I had to fill out an application that was more extensive than my last job interview. They wanted to know where the dog will live, how long it will be alone, and what will happen to it if he/she outlives me. At least they didn’t ask what will happen to it in the event of rapture (aftertherapturepetcare.com). Then someone had to examine my house to make sure my yard was secure and that Michael Vick wasn’t hiding in a closet. I failed the inspection to my surprise. The latch on my gate was sub-par. The boards on my fence were suspect. My yard would be too hot in the summer and because I don’t have a doggie door into the house, a pug might either overheat or spontaneously combust. Even though Starbuck never escaped or died from heat stroke it was obvious that these people weren’t going to give me a dog.

The next option was going to the SPCA where the adoption fees are much less but with them comes the saying “you get what you pay for”. I spent a Saturday afternoon at an adoption event in Long Beach. I could have come away with 12 dogs. They’re basically giving them away. There’s no lengthy application or home inspection. You spend a few minutes with the dog of choice and that’s it. If you wish, you can adopt right there. I kind of liked one dog, but there was no guarantee that he was house-trained or well-adjusted. I passed on the SPCA.

So, it was back to the rescue groups. I visited one in Marina Del Rey where I met Peetey. Each dog at this site came with a sponsor/volunteer who was responsible for boarding the dog during the week and for monitoring its behavior. Peetey’s sponsors were a neat couple named Barb and Lonnie. We walked Peetey together while they unobtrusively got to know me. They felt that Peetey was a great dog for me. I was comfortable enough putting in an application. But I had to wait to see if I was good enough for the rescue group.

Soon thereafter I began emailing with a lady named Susan who helps run the rescue group. Without knowing me or knowing much about Peetey, she raised concerns that he wasn’t housebroken and that I needed to hire a dog-walker while I am at work. I said that wasn’t necessary because I am home every day after school with plenty of time to walk a dog. I was beginning to think that these rescue groups want a doggie Shangri-La; a large yard in Palos Verdes with two retired owners who cater to their pet’s every need. I think they forget one crucial element – they are dogs! They need care and attention, but they are also hearty creatures. They don’t have to live in paradise. Give them food, water, shelter, exercise, and love and they’re abundantly happy!

Meanwhile, Lonnie cyber-stalked me and found this blog site, which reconfirmed in his mind that I was a more-than suitable owner for Peetey. Thankfully, Lonnie, and not Susan, got to make the final decision. Peetey’s a really good boy. He’s very different from Starbuck, but he’s a lot of fun and has a sweet personality.

All dog owners wish they could know what their pet is thinking. Author Garth Stein has done this beautifully in the brilliant and touching book, “The Art of Racing in the Rain.” In the book, Enzo the dog is owned by a race-car driver named Denny. He and Denny love to watch racing together on TV. They have a wonderful relationship and Enzo supports Denny during a very rough time of life.

Starbuck was very Enzo-like in my life. Peetey has some big paws to fill. At home, he seems to enjoy his new slice of paradise and I’m thankful to have a pastime viewing partner. He loves the Angels, despises the Yankees, and agrees on the need for instant replay. I am thrilled for this new chapter in my life, which I am calling: the Art of Baseball Watching in (Shangri)-LA.

A Birthday Party for a Country

Everybody loves a good ol’ fashioned birthday party, right? Birthday parties are a special time to commemorate surviving another lap around the sun. Parents love to break the bank on parties for children too young to understand what is happening. In return, children then go overboard on parties for their parents who are too old to remember what they had for breakfast.

There are going to be countless parties and BBQs today in celebration of our independence. There will buckets of beans, piles of potato salad, and enough beef on the grill to fill the Statue of Liberty. Fireworks will light the sky and kids will play with sparklers. Neighborhood firecrackers will send dogs scurrying under beds and flag-shaped cakes dotted with blueberries will be featured on Facebook.

These will be wonderful celebrations, but they won’t be birthday parties. So let’s throw America a birthday party. To start, we’ll need a location. Philadelphia comes to mind. Although, there are 20 states that have towns called Freedom. Nine states have cities named Independence. I’ll go with Missouri’s since it is centrally located and the most well-known.

What about the guest list? Anyone who calls themselves an American is invited. But this will be a party without hyphens. For a day, we won’t be Italian-Americans, or African-American, or Asian-Americans. If you came to this country to seek a better life or if you’re descended from someone who crossed the Pacific, the Rio Grande, or the Atlantic yearning to breathe free then you’re invited. There will have to be a small admission fee, because living in this country takes sacrifice and our freedom has cost many patriotic lives. That said, all veterans and current members of the armed forces will get in free.

The menu will be as eclectic as the makeup of our country. A melting pot of foods and flavors will join together to represent the people of all nationalities who have come to America and worked to build it into a great republic over the last 239 years. Imagine a feast with not just hotdogs and apple pie, but enchiladas, lomo saltado, spring rolls, corned beef, yakisoba, egusi soup, tandori chicken, baklava, and ravioli. The dessert table alone will be impressive: biscotti and cannoli, macaroons and tea cakes, stroopwafels, flodebollers, and sopapillas with a side of dolce de leche.

I’d like to bring in the Reverend Billy Graham to bless the meal, but because America is a built on freedom of religion everybody in attendance will be free to give thanks in their own way, or respectfully abstain if they so choose.

Entertainment? Of course! But there might not be enough hours in the day to fully allow for all of the music and dancing to take place. We’ll need sound stages to be erected for music from jazz to mariachi. We’ll need dance floors laid out to hold the rhythmic styles from Argentina to Zimbabwe. Every tree can hold a piñata for the kids and the old men can play bocce ball and toss horse shoes.  

Think of the conversations to be had around the fire pits as the sun goes down. I’d want to talk to a WWII vet, or a New York City firefighter, or a member of NASA who worked to send Neil Armstrong to the moon. Then the slideshow will start. Narrated by Morgan Freeman, we’d see shots of famous people and video clips of historic moments. We’d hear sound bites of memorably monogrammed speeches from FDR to MLK to JFK.

Lastly, when the dark of night had completely arrived, the fireworks will start. And with the background music playing, my mind will wander. I’d think about how thankful I am to live in this great country ours. And that even though it has many zits, and scars, issues and problems America is still the leader of the free world. It’s a country full of the most generous, forgiving, creative, innovative, courageous, driven, and victorious people in the world.

And despite its problems, it is still the country where people write the scripts of their own lives. It’s a place where one’s destiny is not predetermined. Every American is a writer, a producer, and a director of the movie of their own lives. “What to be, where to live, whom to love, whom to marry, what to believe, what religion to practice – these are all decisions that Americans make for themselves,” writes Dinesh D’Souza in the book “What’s So Great About America”. And as the last rocket blasts its red glare I will wonder if that’s what Thomas Jefferson had in mind when he penned the phrase, “Pursuit of Happiness.” I think it is.

So as we all take a break from our pursuits today, don’t forget to wish our great nation a happy birthday. Fly your flags. Be thankful for freedom and independence. 

And then pass me a cannoli.

The War on Soda

I’ve loved drinking soda pop since my youth.

Back in the day we had this place called Town Club. It was like the Garden of Eden of sugary sodas. My mom would take my sister and I and we’d grab a wooden crate into which we’d cram 24 bottles of our favorite flavors: grape, orange, root beer … whatever we wanted. Then we’d drive home to the cacophony of the glass containers clinking together in the truck of mom’s bright orange AMC Hornet. I guess Town Club was a pioneer of the recycling movement, because we could take the empties back in their crate and load up for more.

In high school, I had a job at a local drug store where I could get a bottle of Coca Cola for a quarter. And then the Big Gulp era began. At Central Michigan University we had a 7-11 on campus where my roommates and I could get our 32 ounces to guzzle during those late-night study sessions.

College students in New York City are going to have find devices other than soda to stay awake. Mayor Michael Bloomberg wants to change how New Yorkers drink soda. He has proposed a law that would forbid shops and restaurants from selling sugary sodas, teas, and energy drinks larger than 16 ounces.

Dude. Seriously?

Ok, I get it. Americans are fat. Obesity and heart disease are killing off Americans faster than the Hatfields and McCoys reduced the population of Tug Fork, West Virginia. In addition, rising health care costs are a financial burden to employers and the economy.

But this has got to be the craziest law ever. We as a society are basically swimming in soda. There are 44 and 68 ounce-sized sodas. Restaurants have free refills. Fast-food eateries want you to super-size. At the grocery store, a two-liter costs less that a 20 ounce bottle. At Costco you can get 36 cans for the same price as a 12-pack at the market.

How does he expect to enforce such a law? Will there be the Pop Police? I picture a uniformed officer guarding the self-serve soda dispenser at Subway. A man walks up to the dispenser, fills his 16 ounce cup, takes a swig, and goes to top it off. Suddenly, sirens rings, alarms go off, the guard springs to life and slaps the cuffs on the unsuspecting soda consumer. “You shoulda’va picked another spot for your five-dollar foot long, buddy!” the guard screams.

The legislation could be a new opportunity for Law and Order creator Dick Wolf to spin off a new series. Law and Order SPS: Soda Pop Swindlers. In the show, a pair of gritty New York detectives like Ice T and Mariska Hargitay patrol the streets looking for waitresses who give one too many refills, and for bodega owners who turn a blind eye to the Wall Street investment banker who wants two Pepsis and a Red Bull with his afternoon snack.

Think about how the illegal Big Gulps will thrive on the Black Market. New Yorkers will be driving to Jersey and Connecticut for their super-sized sodas. So maybe Bloomberg can stop the stores, movie theaters, and restaurants from selling Godzilla-sized sodas. But can he stop them from selling two or three smaller sized ones? I’m not a math wizard, but doesn’t three 12 ouncers equal more than a 32 ouncer?

I’m glad that Bloomberg wants his citizens to be healthier. Just like I’m happy that our cities and states have cracked down on cigarette smoking. It’s great that restaurants and airports are smoke-free. I like that ushers at the ballpark keep fans from lighting up in the stands. However, this soda law makes me think of how foolish some of the no-smoking regulations are. There’s a sign prohibiting smoking at the softball field where I play on Sundays. It’s attached to the fence above where our rightfielder regularly puffs away while we’re up to bat.

I think it’s odd that the mayor has proposed this soda law. What’s next? A one doughnut limit at Winchell’s? Has the mayor seen the artery-clogging portion sizes at restaurants like the Cheesecake Factory and Claim jumper?

In my job, I am always pleading with my students to care about their grades. I want them to study, try harder, and show their work on every math problem. I can give them strategies to help them and incentives to motivate them. I even have to at times enforce consequences for their lack of effort. But the thing is, I really can’t make them care about their grades. It always goes back to that old adage about leading a horse to water.

And Mayor Bloomberg can’t make New Yorkers care about their health. He can motivate. He can give incentives to be healthier. He can try to lead them away from the soda, but they’re still going to drink.

It’s most certainly a good thing to cut back on soda. I know I’m trying to. But I’m still going to have a Diet Coke or two, especially with my extra large New York style pizza.