Incident 475

The Day Fire, so called because it started on Labor Day, burns to the north. It's already cooked 130,000, whoops, make that 150,000 acres of California real estate. A realtor started it to ease the 'housing bubble.' Too much land on the market - let's just barbeque some - that'll drive the price back up, right? Actually it was started by somebody burning Paris Hilton dvds. Let that be a lesson - on holidays that honor the everyday worker, never, ever get off the couch.

I grew up in snow country. Sometimes late on a school night I'd sneak downstairs and turn on the porch light, hoping to see little flurries floating down, giving me hope for a 'snow day' and no school. Now ash was falling like snow, swirling in the porch light like so many SoCal snowflakes. My sons hoped for a 'soot day.' A tradition, although warped, continues.

Gotta go prepare the subterranean guest rooms. The Bunny family in the backyard is expecting about 327 extended family members, displaced by the fire, to arrive soon. This happened two years ago when a smaller, closer fire occurred. All kinds of critters moved in. "Smoking or non-smoking?" I would ask. Forest animals don't laugh much, and some lacked proper manners. The raccoons were the worst. They'd leave wet towels on the bathroom floor and get fur in the bathsoap. They would wash everything! I think they had OCD.

Josie Speaks

Hi - it's me, Josie, the dog, the one Annie didn't write about. I figured it was only fair to let you know I'm here too. I'm a very nice, well-mannered labrador retriever/border collie cross. I'm very smart. I spell better than most people. Whoops, I meant I smell better than most people. Annie's been very busy watching the Yankees march toward the playoffs, so I thought I'd sneak in here while she was gone. (Pardon my french poodle, but if you thought typing was a b!tch, try it sometime without opposable thumbs.)

Did I mention I was smart? I'm also very attentive and thoughtful. If you were here, I'd fetch you something. Anything! Over and over and over again. Because I'm a caring canine. And because obsessive compulsive disorders in border collies are well, obsessive. If you ever need someone to worry about you, I'm your dog.

Apparently this is not a character trait of some other dog in this house, while we won't mention names, but his rhymes with 'take' and 'snake,' and 'break.' And yes, he's good at all that stuff.

Who chewed up the legos?
Who stole Josie's squeaky toy...again?
Who doesn't know how to fetch?
Who uses his outside voice in the house?

You get the idea. Anyway, that stupid Scottie is trying to swipe my tennis ball again, so I gotta run.

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!