Ode to Jake

There is something gluttonous, yet enviable, about being able to walk into a room or a life and immediately locate the most pleasant, comfortable place to recline. Whether it's the coziest corner of a sofa or a soul, there's a rare art form to finding it.

My nine-year-old son wanted a cat for his birthday. He's allergic to them, and I don't do litter boxes, so he opted for a "cat-sized dog." He thought a Scottish Terrier would be nice, so off I went to troll petfinders.com for his birthday present. I found a Scottie named "Jake," but no picture, so I requested a photo. A week went by before I got a response, explaining that all they had available was an old photo in which they had shaved him completely to keep him cool, so he looked a bit odd. In the photo, he looked like a naked but smiling rat. With a birthday fast approaching, it was at least a happy rat.

After Jake sent one of his animal rescue minions to review our house to see if it was up to his standards (it was), we were instructed to bring in our current dog, Josie - an over-achieving border collie/labrador cross, for a 'compatibility check.' On the way to her interview, I prepped Josie on proper Scottish traditions, and warned her, at least for the day, not to diss haggis, kilts or the Queen. She aced the test, even the verbal essay question about ending world hunger.

When we first met Jake, he was trolling the buffet at PetSmart, the other end of his leash attached to a young animal rescue volunteer. He must have been familiar with the food there because he was waddling his way about the spilled treats to find the best ones. I was expecting a cute little Scottie, like Jock from "Lady and the Tramp." Jake could have eaten Jock for dinner. He resembled "Citizen Kane" more than "Lady and the Tramp," his portly gentleman's style cloaked a "I'll-have-my-bacon-now" attitude.

Nonetheless, we took him home. He sat quietly between my sons in the back seat of the car, like a funny-looking friend with a unibrow. Upon arriving home, he promptly took up residence in Josie's doggie bed. No growling, no fighting - he did it by conveniently forgetting over and over that the bed did indeed belong to Josie. I would remind him of this fact, and he'd look at me like it was a glorious revelation. "Really," he seemed to say, "So sorry - I had no idea." Ten minutes later, he'd attempt another assault on poor Josie's bed. This continued until we all gave up.

Jake is here to stay, although we may have to leave just to get some peace and quiet. He's a furry, forty-pound trotting sausage who greets guests warmly by body-slamming their shins and howling in the finest of Scottish traditions. He has sauntered into our hearts and curled up next to the fire. And we wouldn't have it any other way.

1st Day of School - Let's Play Two

I had a major quandary today (for Bush-backers, that means I had to put my thinking cap on). The first day back to school for my two darling sons - a big event fraught with stress, worry, and $437 worth of school supplies. Yes, a double latte day all on its own, but as if that weren't enough, the Yankees were playing two games against Detroit. So my dilemma was - who would pick up my kids from school?

This had been an issue before. A few weeks ago my sons had staged an intervention. "Mom," the shorter one said, "You like baseball more than us."

"That's ridiculous," I replied. "Quit blocking the tv. Jeter's batting."

This time the first game was on while I was at work so I got to watch it without interruption. However, the second one posed a bit of a problem. It was on during what I like to call the "Witching Hour" - when most families eat dinner and talk to each other. Yes, I know - how absurd. Plus, like I mentioned, this was the first day of that school thingy they have to do every year until they move out. And I just knew they'd start whining about how I shouldn't pack beer in their lunchboxes and how I had dropped them off at the wrong school so they had to walk to the right one, and to be perfectly honest, I had heard it all before. Time for a new pitch, boys.

We got home in time to see the last few innings of the game. I tossed them a jar of peanut butter and two spoons, and got to work studying Proctor's delivery. He was dropping his shoulder, overthrowing the ball again. Sure enough, some mook homered off him to win the game for Detroit. Ugh. If this was the way the rest of the season was going to be, I might just as well spend my time talking to my kids.

If only I could remember where I put them.

T.S., Ernesto

With all this talk of protecting our borders, I was shocked, shocked, to find out that some blowhard named Ernesto was audaciously, publicly making his way from Cuba to Florida. No green card, no visa, no Red Rover, Red Rover, let Ernesto come over. Why don't we stop him? Make him go through mountains of paperwork like a real American. He's already announced plans to head up the East Coast, like all the other seasonal 'guest workers.'

There's such a media frenzy swirling around this guy - he's in all the papers, on the news, and we just sit here, watching him. Except for some people in Florida who are actually running away from him! What are we, French? Patrick Buchanan and Anne Coulter seem to be cowering under a rock somewhere. Some fair-weather friends they turned out to be.

Where is the border patrol? Where is justice? Where's my hurricane party? This is obviously the fault of the leftist pro-immigration wussies. Green-house effect, my keester! Somebody needs to tell Ernesto to go rain on someone else's parade.

Yay-Rod

I have had it up to

here

with the boo-bird A-Rod commentary. From now on, if a writer carps on A-Rod with the same old boring stuff, I'm going to bill him for the portion of my life I wasted reading his regurgitated pap.

We've all heard it so many times - fans boo A-Rod because he's not producing, he's not a clutch player, he hasn't won them a championship, yadda, yadda, yadda. Yes, he's paid a lot. Yes, he's the best. Yes, he's paid to win it all. Any writer offering these insightful revelations up as news fit to fill a column will be subject to my intense, personal hissing and namecalling. If the 'boo' fits....

Do we really want to be able to buy a trophy? That's the simplistic raison d'etre of Yankee-haters. But the glory of baseball is the lotto-esque feel - any group put together right has a chance. So while you can't buy it outright, since this is America, everyone has the opportunity to bust butt hard enough to build a team that can compete. George did, you just watched - get over it.

In the escapist mentality that is sports, Derek is Mr. Yankee Baseball, not A-Rod. Jeter, in all his bubblegum coolness, is a Shaftian Superman, a slick contrast to the 'Me Try Harder' Rodriguez. I even hear that Derek's bachelor pad resembles the Fortress of Solitude, but you ain't gettin' details outta me.

From his furrowed brow to his dusty cleats, A-Rod tries hard every day, sometimes too much, and sometimes- he goofs. Sometimes he's human, he's Clark Kent at third base. We all goof every day and would just as soon not be reminded by seeing his inward scowl, his frown because a sac fly didn't quite make it over the fence. We want a perfect comic book hero, not someone who grinds his own performance. Been there, left it there.

We want A-Rod to be Superman, but he's Everyman. It's easy to cheer Superman. It takes guts to cheer ourselves. And it's so much more important. And it's so much more of a (gasp!) story - helloooooo! Any writer who takes the easy route of dogpiling on A-Rod needs to go out and take the essay-equivalent of extra batting practice. And this time I want to see some real hustle!

Die, Bunnies, Die! Confessions of Cruelty to Cottontails

I'm not proud of this. I don't expect you to understand. I just ask that you walk a mile in my shoes without stepping in bunny poo.

The other day I went to the hardware store looking for a humane method to scare the patootie out of bunnies. Here's why:

• Dogs pee on grass and kill it.
• I replant grass.
• Bunnies eat new grass.
• Bunnies poop in new grass.
• Dogs eat bunny poo.
• Dogs barf bunny poo on carpet.

The circle of life needed to stay off my living room rug.

Normal dogs chase bunnies. My dogs chase shadows and people with macaroni & cheese. Knowing this, the bunny family invited their extended family, the ground squirrels, who in turn informed the local sparrow gang that grass seed was being served fresh daily. After gorging on Marathon Pro II seed, the birds would gather to bicker about whether my patio furniture would look more appealing in puce or taupe, literally dropping many 'hints' that the current color could use an improvement.

It was getting downright insulting. I'd come home from work to find bunnies lounging in the yard, literally lying down as they ate. All they needed was a sixpack and a Packer game on tv. The squirrel family let their bratty kids run roughshod through my impatiens. I'd point this out to the dogs and they would give me the "What do you want from us? We're dogs" look. That's basically their look all the time, but at this point, it was a pretty shoddy excuse.

The hardware store had an array of scare-em tactics. I found myself purveying a large inflatable snake for $12.99, until I realized I would probably forget it was fake and freak my own self out more than the animals. (And I'm not even addressing the Freudian aspects of that.) No good - the sparrows would have a fit, since the snake clashed with the patio furniture. There was also:

• some sour stuff you could spray on the grass - after a doggy taste test, I could see that being hacked up on the living room carpet tout-suite.
• Chicken wire fencing - nope - last Easter, the squirrels had given the bunnies a custom-made rapelling set. Might as well install a jungle gym for Junior Bunny.
• Motion-detector sprinkler - this held promise, until I remembered the time I used a hose in an attempt to flush the squirrels from their underground lair. They just converted their rec room into a spa, and their property value doubled.

As much as I didn't want to hurt the bunnies, I was getting desperate. My lawn was disappearing - I had to kick cottontail ass or risk, horror of horrors, admonishment from the homeowners' association.

I found my solution in the strangest of places - the clearance rack at the local music store. Apparently small, suburban furry folk abhor Barry Manilow tunes as much as the rest of us. And if they somehow develop a tolerance for that (twitch!) music, I've readied a recording of ESPN's Stuart Scott. To be on the safe side, does anyone have a David Hasselhoff album I could borrow? Please don't tell PETA.

Mel's Lamentation (or Gibson's Two-sided Sorrows)

(for the pc-sensitive - take this in the spirit it was intended - mocking a hypocrite who in this case happens to be anti-Semitic)

Sung to the tune of Sinatra's "New York, New York"-

Start blamin' the Jews,
They own all L.A.
I wanna be a part of it,
Jew Narc, Jew Narc.

These schmutzige blues,
Are meltink avay,
Let's make a six point star of it,
An ol' Jew Narc.

Oy! Wanna wake up in a city that Levin keeps?
And find your rent's overdue,
Can't get it cheap?

Stopped blamin' the Jews,
I'm 'Levin' today.
Oy, watch I'll wear a yarmulke,
For you, Jew Narc, Jew Narc!!!