Stink, Stank, Stunk

Connie Corleone: “You think you know your husband? You know how many men he had killed! Read the papers. Read the papers! That's your husband!”

Michael Corleone takes Connie into his arms, but she goes wild again and tries to attack him.

Michael: “Take her upstairs. Get her a doctor.”

Michael's bodyguards grab Connie and pull her out of the office.

Michael to Kay: “She's hysterical.”

- The Godfather

            For 25 years, Brian has been my guy. Last week, he uttered four words that no woman ever wants to hear. He came home from work, nuzzled my neck, and said, “You smell like Vito.”

            I immediately dialed 1-800-CALLSAM to start divorce proceedings.

             “It’s not like you smell bad,” he said. “Vito smells nice … for a dog.”

            “And The Grinch smells nice,” I said “ … for a Christmas-stealing monster.”

            I take matters of personal hygiene very seriously. I grabbed a Brillo pad from beneath the sink in order to scrub off the top three layers of my dog-saturated skin.

            “Leave me …” I said on my way to the shower. “ … to my shame.”

            He grabbed my arm. “Here, let me smell your neck again,” he said. “I was probably wrong …”

            He inhaled.  “Now I don’t smell it at all, he said. “You smell like a flower … a super flower.”

            “A flower infested with stink bugs,” I said.           

            “I was probably just smelling the real Vito,” he said. “Like, his smell is in the house.”

            “You can smell Vito in the house?” I screamed. I had aunts who vacuumed their front lawns, for heaven’s sake, and now my house smells like a kennel! During the rest of the evening, Brian removed all sharp objects from our home.

            The next day, two of my best friends from college had read about Vito’s antics, and they wanted to visit him. I gave them a minute to meet the dog, and then I asked them something that you can only ask very old friends.

            “Does anything stink?”

             Marie’s a lawyer, very smart. She was not going to admit to something that could be used against her later, in a court of law. “My nose is congested,” she said. “I can’t smell a thing.”

            But Judy is a consultant who gets paid big bucks to tell hospital execs the hard truth.  She’s an expert at serving it straight. She lifted her refined nose and sniffed.

             “I smell a hint of urine,” she said

            “Urine!” I screamed. When she saw my knees buckle, she said to open a window. That should take care of it, she said.

             I invited Judy and Marie into the family room, followed them, and stepped in a puddle of Vito pee. Then as Judy suggested, I flung the kitchen window open, and myself through it.

Dat Vito

“Never hate your enemies. It affects your judgment.”

- Michael Corleone

- Godfather III

            Vito would be mortified if he was aware of this, but he looks like a cat.

             How horrible would it be to resemble your mortal enemy? What if Batman woke up as The Joker? What if a werewolf from Team Jacob was as pale and scrawny as a vampire from Team Edward? Imagine a Wolverine mistaken for a Buckeye? It could be a catastrophe.

            We try not to mention that he looks like a cat in front of him because we don’t want him to be full of self-loathing. But with those big, pointy cat ears, he doesn’t miss much.

            Our whole family thinks that from the back Vito looks like Felix the Cat, or maybe Sylvester. With his black and white coat and whiskers, it’s not that much of a stretch. It’s the way his tail moves lightly through the air that makes us suspect that he may have some cat DNA floating around his chromosomes.

            That wouldn’t be impossible. Throughout history, animals have mated with those of a different genetic code. Remember when people at the zoo put together a lion and a tiger? The world had a Liger.

The breeder Judith said Vito’s parents were Siberian Huskies named Emme and Rogue. But, really, how can she be sure?  I believe Emme and Rogue mated, but who can say that Emme wasn’t getting some on the side?

Come to think of it, there was a randy cat that roamed around Karnovanda Kennels. What if that big, fertile, alley cat stopped by, maybe with a couple 40-ounce bottles of Colt 45 Malt Liquor, and got Emme good and drunk one night while Judith was sleeping?  Maybe Vito is a Dat, a dog-cat hybreed. I’m sure Judith wasn’t watching Emme 24/7, so how can she say for certain that it didn’t happen?

Especially when you consider that when Vito’s hungry, he arches his back and rubs against our legs.

It’s not just our immediate family. Aunt Julie visited and brought him a toy. It was a fishing rod with an imitation sand dollar that hung from the line. When we took it out of the package, she cracked up because she hadn’t realized the toy was meant for cats. But my feeling was that she saw a photo of Vito and in her subconscious she thought he was a cat.

Within one minute, he had annihilated the entire toy, so somewhere inside he is a dog.

            To settle this, I invented my own genetic test for him. I heard the garbage pail in the laundry room topple over. I called for Vito, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty …” He came, with an empty can of tuna fish in his mouth.

Wyatt's Visit

"Nephew, from this moment forward, call yourself Vincent Corleone."

- Michael transferring power to Vincent Mancini.

Godfather III

  I have been blessed with 11 nephews, nine nieces, and one great nephew named Wyatt, who is 15. With 20 cousins in the mix, Wyatt blends right in. But one Friday evening, Wyatt changed that.

            Our three kids were out, and after dinner Brian and I shopped for shoes. In the middle of Macy’s, my cell rang.

            “Hi Aunt Annemarie. This is Wyatt. Can I bring my girlfriend Kelli over to see Vito?”

            I said sure, but I wanted to give him an out because his cousins weren’t home. I didn’t want him to be bummed out because it was just Brian and I.

 “None of the kids are home. Christina will be back Sunday afternoon if you would rather come then.”

            “We want to come now.”

            “Oh … Okay … sure. Are you sure? It’ll just be Uncle Brian and me. No kids.”

            “That’s fine,” he said. “Call us when you get home.”

            An hour later, I called from our driveway.

            “We’re home,” I said. “Is your mom coming?”

            “Nope. She’s out,” he said. “It’s just me and Kelli. We’re on our way.”

            After a full day of work plus the shopping, Brian and I felt 400 years old. At that time of night we’re about as exciting as a warm glass of skim milk.

            At 9:30 p.m., we weren’t the fun aunt and uncle Wyatt sees under the cloak of a family gathering. Wyatt would discover that we were really two old people who passed out in the middle of  “Medium” on Friday nights. Even Vito was half-dead from the day.

            As I fought TV-induced sleep, a rigorous series of knocks pounded from the front door. Wyatt sprang inside the hallway before I got the door fully opened. He hugged me hard and introduced me to Kelli, a pretty 16-year-old who did the driving. They both smiled so easily, like it was 9:30 in the morning.

            Vito, too, sprang to life and was ready to perform. He led Wyatt and Kelli to the family room, where Kelli scooped him into her lap. Vito was a complete gentleman. No biting, squeaking, or crazy jumping.

            Kelli was so obviously good with Vito that I had to ask if she planned to become a veterinarian. She said she did, and she began to tell us about her own dog, a Golden Retriever named Ginger.

She told us she liked her school, but there was an awful lot of drama there at the moment. I told her the tenth grade was the same everywhere. She said that while I may think that, there was probably a little more at her school.

Wyatt talked about how his classmates got a day off after his school won the big hockey game.

We talked about serious stuff, too, like how Wyatt has been to too many funerals lately. The parents of two friends died, one right on Wyatt’s birthday.

 With such a good conversation going, I thought Brian was going to offer Wyatt a beer.

Too soon, they said they had to leave because Kelli had a curfew. A real one, she said, that her mother enforced. We all hugged good night, and we told Kelli that she should move in with us because she cast such a wonderful spell over Vito. We told her she would make a great vet one day.

Before I put Vito to bed, I thanked him. Who would have thought that one little puppy could bring Wyatt and I so close on an everyday Friday evening?

 I felt so warm and fuzzy that I stayed awake all the way to the end of the 11 o’clock news.

Vampire Spawn

“Oh, Godfather, I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do ...” Don Corleone rises from his chair and shakes Johnny Fontane savagely.

             “YOU CAN ACT LIKE A MAN!” The Don quick slaps Johnny Fontane. 
              - The Godfather

While we slept, ancient Japanese warriors broke into our home, swung from our chandelier, somersaulted through our kitchen, and replaced all Vito’s baby teeth with tiny Samurai swords.

            He has begun the “teething stage,” and he cannot stop chewing. His mantra appears to be, “Bite the hand that feeds you.”

            We bought him a synthetic Nylabone and a plastic porcupine to wrap his jaw around, but human toes are his favorite chew toy. His tiny saber teeth get caught in our socks. As we leap to get away, his teeth tear our socks, and our skin. He has ripped apart a rug. He has literally tried to eat the refrigerator and dishwasher. 

            His breeder Judith told us this was going to happen, and she had the remedy.

            “He’s going to try to bite you and get dominance, so what you gotta do is ...” She balled up her fist. “Punch him right in the face.”

            I gasped. Such violence. Judith is the Siberian Husky guru, but I feared her method was too brutal for me. After all, I was a former member of Greenpeace.

            She continued, “Then offer him your cheek and say, ‘Gimme a kiss.’ He’ll get straightened out quick, alright.”

            As Vito has begun to rip us to shreds, Judith’s words have come back to me.

There have been many nips that I would like to smack him for, but I live in the suburbs. Socking a puppy in Oakland County could get you life imprisonment; I consulted the Internet for a more genteel solution.

“Never slap or hit your puppy in the face. This does not work! Your puppy will just think you are playing or could become afraid of you. This may even lead to some much bigger problems than simple puppy nipping.” According to the Internet Dog Trainer, hitting Vito could harm our relationship. Good thing I didn’t listen to Judith.

The Internet Trainer continued, “Make your puppy think he is hurting you each time he has a nip at you. Let out an ‘Ouch!’ or an ’Arrr!’ every time your puppy bites. The trick is to startle your dog with your voice, and then pull away and stop playing with your puppy for a while. Your pup will soon learn that when he starts to bite, his playmate (you) goes away.

While I read, Vito bit my feet. I let out an “Arrr!” He bit me worse because he thought I was a pirate. Then I tried to startle him with an “Ouch!” But he thought it was a new game and bit me faster. Now he jumped up and tried to bite my face. I was getting scared of him.

When I bent down to direct him away from me and toward his crate, Vito made a fatal mistake. He bit me in the neck. Judith’s advice -- “Punch him in the face” – flashed in my mind. My dog was Vampire spawn. I had to drive in a stake in the head of the beast.

 I wound up and knocked Vito smack between the eyes.

             He tumbled back and landed on his side. He lay there for a moment, stunned. When he finally sat up, his eyes rolled like he saw cartoon birds circle above his head.

            “NO BITING!” I shouted in his face.

            He slunk and hid his face underneath my legs.

            I let him sulk for a few seconds.

            “Gimme a kiss,” I said softly.

            He jumped up and baptized me with wet, sloppy licks all over my face. After that, amazingly, he kept his teeth under control.

            Score one for Judith.

As for the Internet Dog Trainer, I have two words -- bite me!

           

              

Dr. Pederstein

      “I have much respect for your father. But your father, his thinking is old-fashioned.”

- Sollozzo, speaking in Sicilian, to Michael Corleone.

- The Godfather

             I should have destroyed Beth’s copy of “Frankenstein” years ago. Now, it’s up to the good folks at the University of Michigan Medical Scientist Training Program to have a hard talk with her, before things go too far.

            Beth has earned a mega scholarship to attend medical school and get her PhD. The hope is that one day her studies will bring the world one step closer to, say, a cure for cancer. She has reflected a lot about what direction she wants to take, and recently she has had some revolutionary ideas.

            “I’m going to invent a drug to keep puppies from turning into adult dogs.” She said during her impromptu physical examination of Vito in our kitchen.

            “I know, they’re so cute,” I said. “You just wanna keep ‘em small forever, don’t ya?”

            “Yes,” she answered, as she palpated his liver. “That is why I’m going to discover the drug to keep a dog a puppy. It is too late for Vito, but I can conceive of creating a formula that will allow an owner to keep his pet a baby.”

            “I thought you were going to study something normal, like cancer. The University may not like it if you use a lab for your own ulterior motives.”

             “The puppy drug will offer years of health,” she said, unfazed. “A fountain of youth, if you will.” Then she pried open his mouth and looked for signs of a cleft palate.

             “Ohhh, I see,” I said. “You’re thinking of a way to slow the aging process as it relates to something like Alzheimer’s disease, if you will.”
            “Could be,’ she said. “But my main focus would be to keep puppies small.”

            “Their brains?” I asked. “And everything?”

            “I would wait until 3.5 months, when they have developed 100 percent of their brain mass. Then I would begin injections. At that point, they would remain puppies for the duration of their lives.”

            “That’s tampering with nature, though.”

            “Chemotherapy, the polio vaccine, even over-the-counter vitamins, all these medical breakthroughs tamper with nature, Mother.”

            “But keeping a dog a puppy, that’s a bit much.”

            “What about the reverse? What about growth hormones that make people bigger?”

            “I wished they’d had a ‘Baby Drug’ when you were little,” I said as I grabbed Vito from her mad-scientist arms. “You were cuter then, too.”

            Recently we got a visit from a couple of her younger cousins, Johnny, a fifth grader, and Jimmy, who is in third grade. Beth thinks they are some of the cutest boys ever, and she can’t hide her affection for them.

            She mentioned the Puppy Drug to their father, her Uncle Joe, who also happens to be a pharmacist. It was subtle, but I believe she tried to enlist him in her scheme. At first, Joe laughed heartily. Beth has always been good-natured, so why wouldn’t he think she was just saying something funny. But when she didn’t respond in the usual way, like laughing back, he grabbed Johnny and Jimmy’s hands and backed himself and his children away from her and out the door.

             “You know he’s not going to let you see them again,” I said to her, “until Jimmy turns 18.”

Love Hurts

“Momma … Momma Mia.”

The Tenor, from Godfather II           

            Next to me singing, the most painful sound heard in the universe is the shrieking cry of an animal that misses its mother. The first few nights after we got Vito -- after we ripped him right off the loving teats of his mother -- he screamed like a carload of Toyota passengers on a mountain curve.

            When I went downstairs to comfort him at 1-, 2-, 3-, 4-, 5-, and 6-o’clock in the morning, he calmed down, but it was from exhaustion more than anything else.

             After a few nights of this, I remembered that Christina had a stuffed Siberian Husky, which looked real. I also had a free sample of a Comfort Zone Wipe with Dog Appeasing Pheromones. First the Pee Post had pheromones, and now this wipe. I am beginning to think “pheromone” is a code word for Doggie Crack. The Comfort Zone Wipe looked like a Wet Ones, and the package claimed it mimicked pheromones released by mother dogs to help calm and comfort their puppies. I wiped it all over the toy Husky. Vito snuggled with it and finally relaxed.

             I stumbled to bed and my mind began to wander back to 1976 when I was in college and a member of Greenpeace, an organization that protected imperiled wildlife, such as white, baby harp seals.

            Greenpeace showed us this movie where fur traders on pirate-type ships, bearing scythes and looking like Grim Reapers, clubbed snow-white baby seals and scalped them. The baby seal pups were too slow to get away. For days, the Mamma Seals would lie on top of their baby’s bloody carcass and wail.

             “Save the Seals! Save the Seals,” we’d chant during the movie. Afterward, I felt so bad for the seals that I gave Greenpeace 10 bucks of my parent’s money.

            As I sunk into slumber, I thought about me, and Vito’s real mother, a gorgeous Siberian Husky named Emme. How different was I from those horrible fur mongers? I took Vito from the only life he knew, for my own selfish purposes. And what about poor Emme? Had she even eaten since he left? Had she cried herself to sleep every night, longing for her baby pup, like the mother harp seals? Even an Emme look-alike stuffed animal gave him more comfort in the night than I.

            Last night, as we horsed around with Vito, he ran around the recliner in the family room. We lost sight of him for a second, and then we heard a hard bang.

            He spun like an Olympic Ice Skater, and he screamed like the Russian judges had cheated him out of The Gold. Vito hurt his foot badly. He limped and howled. Brian and I felt useless. We didn’t know how to help him. Finally, I reached for the toy Husky bathed with the Dog Appeasing Pheromones, in hope he would think it was his mother Emme, and it would bring him comfort.

            He looked right past the toy Husky smeared with pheromones, and he limped, whimpering, into my lap. He picked me over the fake Emme!

            I gave him my best hug and told him it was from his first mother, the real Emme.

            

It's Showtime

 “Who’s that spooky looking guy?”
- Grace Hamilton

“That’s Joey Zaza’s bulldog.”
- Vincent Mancini

- Godfather III

        Detroit – The 104^th Detroit Kennel Club Dog Show featured diversity. There were furry faces and hairless ones. Many were stocky, fewer were lean. Some were in heat, while others were past their prime. The dogs were interesting, too.

            One of my favorites was an English Bulldog named Rosie, clad in a Union Jack collar. The Golden Retrievers, with their earnest eyes, for some reason made me proud to be an American. And because the German Shepherds were there, I felt safe from terrorists.

            Suffice it to say that all representatives from the 154 breeds were striking creatures, but Brian and I went for the Siberian Huskies. Vito is no show dog, but we thought that maybe we could pick up a hint or two on how to manage our puppy.

            At the bench area, we found a breeder from Up North, who had nearly 30 Huskies. The man handed us an ominous sheet of paper entitled “So … You Want A Siberian Husky?”  It said, as follows:

            “If you work all day … don’t buy a Siberian.

            “If you value neatness … don’t buy a Siberian.

            “If you want aggressive guard dog instincts … don’t buy a Siberian.

            “If you take pride in your landscaping efforts … don’t buy a Siberian.”

            “If you are one of those people who thinks it is cruel to kennel a dog or keep him confined to his own backyard … don’t buy a Siberian.”

            We confessed that we had gotten a Siberian a few weeks earlier, before we had read the rules. I like a tidy house and Brian prefers a coiffed lawn, so right there we had already broken two. He backpedaled and asked where we got our dog. From Karnovanda Kennel, we said.

            “Ohhh, you got one of Judy Russell’s dogs,” he said. “You got a good dog then. I hope you know they have the desire to run. That very first dash that your puppy makes across the road could be his last run, anywhere,” he continued. “But he’s a good one.”

            We thought if we met another breeder, we might feel better about ourselves, and about our ability to keep our dog from becoming a Flatout in the middle of the road. We said hello to a small woman who trimmed the fur between her Husky’s toes as the dog stood patiently -- in a noose. One slip of the scissors, or heaven forbid a slide off the table, and that Husky was dead meat. A while later, we saw that same woman as she sat in a folding chair, with the full-sized dog spilling over the sides of her lap. Brian also saw her carry the dog around, with its head on her shoulder, like a baby.

            The Huskies were supposed to be featured in the Show Ring at 2:15 p.m. Brian and I had some time to kill, so we watched other breeds strut their stuff. Soon, I wasn’t even looking at the dogs. The handlers were a breed all their own. Food rewards were a big thing with the dogs, and the handlers kept plenty of bits of meat, cheese, and kibble in all kinds of places. One lady kept the dog treats inside her own cheeks. If her dog sat on command, she reached in her stuffed mouth and dug for a hunk of brown, saliva-softened kibble and popped it in the dog’s mouth. Another woman kept the treats in her jacket pocket. Every time her dog did something well, she pulled out two treats: one went in the dog’s mouth, and the other went in her own.

            It was time for the Siberian Huskies to take the Show Ring. Brown, gray, and blond Huskies stood in a straight line ready to run around the ring with their handlers. Brian and I rooted for one in particular, a black-and-white dog that looked like Vito.

            And they were off! They were so light on their feet that their paws barely skimmed the ground. The judge singled out our favorite, the Vito look-alike. He was asked to take another run around the ring. We clapped as he came our way.  As he turned to cut straight across the ring, the dog put on the brakes. He squatted and arched his back. The crowd laughed nervously. And then he did it. He had a bowel movement right in the center of the ring, after which I noticed his handler did not give him a treat.

            The Husky that pooped actually won a blue ribbon, so apparently they don’t count that kind of thing against you.

             

           

Potty Hottie

"You gotta go, you gotta go."

- Capt. McCluskey granting Michael permission to go to the bathroom at the restaurant in "The Godfather."

The Pee Post with advanced “Go Here” pheromones looked like a fat yellow thumbtack. The instructions were straightforward: stick it in the ground, place your puppy next to it, and the miracle of outdoor urination occurs. It was like the Staples “Easy” Button of pet-training products.

The secret was in the pheromones, and the Pee Post claimed to be full of the smelly little things. All living creatures secrete pheromones for a variety of reasons, including sexual attraction. The Pee Post was supposed to make housebreaking easier because it worked with the natural instinct of your pet.

Brian decided it was time to install the Pee Post. He ripped open the package and gagged. It smelled like Dung Beetle breath mixed with road kill. Sick panic overtook his face. He dropped the Pee Post and ran to the bathroom.

“I don’t know about Vito,” Brian said to me as I blew by him to get into the bathroom myself, “but the Pee Post sure worked on me.”

“Don’t touch that thing!" I screamed as I shut the bathroom door. “It’s toxic!” The pheromones worked on me in a way I can't go into on a public Blog.

Nick walked in, whistling after his workout. He stopped mid-step. He crossed his legs. “Oh my God,” he said and barreled into the bathroom.

Christina remained paralyzed in the recliner with her sweater pulled over her mouth and nose, “I can’t breathe,” she choked. “Get that thing out of here!”

Brian stuck the Pee Post in the ground outside. He put the puppy on top of it. Vito caressed it. He licked it. He wrapped himself around it. He pulled it out of the ground and pranced around with it. The dog did everything but pee on it.

Brian came back in from outside with Vito in his arms, shaking his head. No luck. Just as he put Vito on the family room carpet, the puppy let loose so much urine you would have thought that he was a pregnant hippopotamus.

Two hours later, I took Vito back to the Pee Post. He looked at me and winked. He rubbed himself against me like a cat. He tapped my foot with his paw and hopped backward. I think he was flirting with me.

While the pheromones did not appear to work on his bladder, they did stimulate his libido. When I looked into his hormone-amped eyes, I saw a video of his thoughts. He and I were at an Italian restaurant. We shared a strand of spaghetti in some kind of twisted version of “Lady and The Tramp.”

Or maybe that was my own reaction to the pheromones.

‘Fraidy Feet

“He's still alive. They hit him with five shots and he's still alive!”

- Sollozzo, after attempted murder of Don Vito Corleone

Vito needed to go to the vet for his shots, and I needed to consider the best way to get him there. I could lay him on my lap as I drove, but I worried a runaway Toyota would crash into us from behind, and that Vito would make a lousy air bag. So I found a box in the garage and set Vito inside.

From the screaming, you would have thought he was sentenced to a life of solitary confinement, and that box was his jail cell.

We were greeted full force at the door of the vet by a toddler named Toliver. This youngster wore a pair of black snow boots that threatened Vito. The more Vito recoiled from Toliver’s clodhoppers, the more Toliver pursued the “funny puppy.” While this happened, Toliver’s mother looked at wall photos of puppies and kitties, paper animals safe from Toliver.

While Vito hid behind my legs from Toliver, a woman popped out of nowhere. She asked if she could take Vito’s picture because her son wanted a Husky. I said sure. She knelt on the floor and stuck her cell phone in Vito’s face, which made him lunge backwards, right on top of Toliver’s boots.

As I removed the whimpering Vito from Toliver’s feet, the photo-taking woman vanished. We were called to the front desk to deliver Vito’s morning stool sample and measure his weight. He weighed eight pounds, four ounces, the equivalent of one of Toliver’s boots.

The veterinarian looked just like my 17-year-old nephew Connor, so I liked him immediately. The doctor said Vito had roundworms, and I didn’t care for the guy as much. He said put medicine on Vito’s food for three days straight. The stool that followed the medicine may contain some worms, he said. By now, I was peeved at this young man, and I wanted to call Toliver in from the waiting room so he could put his boots to good use and give Dr. WormNews a swift kick.

Other than the larvae that had taken up residence inside him, Vito was fit. It was time for his five shots, to protect him from doggie diseases. He also needed his claws snipped. Plus, he was to receive a microchip inserted between his shoulders. The microchip will help us locate him if he gets lost or runs away. The needle to inject the rice-sized chip was quite large, said the doctor. Did I want to see, or would it be okay if they took him in the back to insert the computer chip? They could also give him his shots and cut his nails back there. The pending vision of Vito’s wormy poops was enough for me, so I asked that he be taken away.

Judging from the screams, the room where they took him must have also served as the Island of Lost Toddler Boots.

When the vet’s assistant brought him back and laid him in my arms, Vito looked completely out of it.

“The microchip needle must have hurt,” I said. “He cried so hard.”

“He didn’t make a sound when we inserted the chip,” she said. “All that fuss was when he got his nails clipped.”

Thanks, Toliver. Now Vito is scared of his own feet.