Vito's First Christmas!

Vito singing "The 12 Days of Christmas."

Write Faster

Don Corleone: “Well, there wasn't enough time, Michael. There just wasn't enough time.”

Michael: “We'll get there, Pop. We'll get there.”

- The Godfather

            Just suppose that one day you went insane and decided to build a house from scratch.

            To accomplish this, you’d have to find a site, draw the plans, scoop the foundation, and buy the materials. Piece by piece, you’d put it together. And if it didn’t all fit, your house would completely fall apart.

            Since you wouldn’t want the house being boring, you’d figure out colors and furniture.  You'd buy stuff and decorate it.

            In the meantime, you’d have to eat, clean, and sleep. Sometimes you’d have to talk to your family and friends, maybe even visit your psychiatrist.

            You’d probably have to take your dog for a walk.

            While you were planning and building, you probably thought you’d finish the house in about three months.

            You really were insane.

            I know this because it takes an insane person to know one.

            After all this time on hiatus, I’m only two-thirds of the way through the first draft of my novel. I thought I’d be done by now.

            It hasn’t quite worked out that way. I know I said I’d be done by now, but I need more time. I’m not quite ready to come back to the blog.

            I read that Stephen King writes 10,000 words a day. I’m doing great at 5,000 per week.

            He can probably build a house faster than me too.

            But I bet he’s more insane.

Dog Days

Christina and Vito chill out during the dog days of summer (Photo by Brian Pedersen)

            Annemarie and Vito will be on hiatus for the next ten weeks.

            During that time, Annemarie will channel all of her creative juices into her novel. Vito will do his part by behaving himself and lying quietly at her feet, as she quickly and effortlessly produces a bestseller.

            That’s the plan anyway …

Fur Ball

Vito guards his fur

“We're all born bald, baby.”

- Telly Savalas

            Vito is one serious fur ball.

            Some call this time of year the shedding season, but what happens to Siberian Huskies once or twice a year is far more ominous than an ordinary word like “shedding” could describe. Think fur explosion.

            The fur comes out in stages. First, the undercoat blows. White, lighter-than air tumbleweeds of fur roll over the floor. When you reach to pick one up, the nearly imperceptible wind generated by your movement causes the ball of fur to shift continuously out of your reach.

            Next, the darker undercoat falls out. The heavier, dark fur coats the carpet. It takes three or four swipes with a vacuum cleaner to pick it up.

            Finally, the outer coat goes. These hairs look like black and silver needles. They stick to upholstered chairs

            For 45 minutes one afternoon and then again a few hours later, I brushed Vito. I removed so much fur that he now resembles a dog more than some freak black and white polar bear.

            The fur pictured is from that long and hairy day.

Eat Me

“You ever think what a coincidence it is that Lou Gehrig died of Lou Gehrig's disease?”

- Christopher Moltisanti

The Sopranos           

            I read that a Downriver man was grateful his dog ate most of his toe while he was passed out drunk. Maybe he was thankful because he got to save on dog food that day. A human toe can be a good source of protein for an animal.

            The article continued that the man was grateful for the dog’s action because it helped uncover an undiagnosed diabetic condition and led to treatment that could save his life. Doctors found an unknown bone infection, and they amputated the rest of the man’s toe.

            The same thing happened to me. I was drinking a pitcher of margaritas to dull the pain of arthritis in my thumb. After about four tumblers, while splayed in the La-Z-Boy, I had an idea -- let’s me and Vito end this thumb pain forever. What the heck.

            “Vito,” I slurred, “Come over and eat this finger hangin’ off the side of my hand.”           

            Really, though, I don’t want Vito to diagnose any of my medical conditions. Every time I read one of those stories about trained dogs that sniff out cancer tumors in places like the prostrate, breast or lung, it makes me nervous.

            Vito is not big on respecting personal boundaries in the first place, and if it were up to him he’d spend about a quarter of his day with his nose jammed into a human body part.  I forbid this -- for several reasons –  because it freaks me out to think he would know more about my health status than I would know. What if he smelled an undiagnosed brain problem? How would he communicate this important information?

            Perhaps he could eat part of my head, which would certainly warrant a trip to the hospital, and lead to a diagnosis, I guess.

Wooly Bully

Hugo, taking himself on a walk

             I woke the other morning to find this Facebook message from my friend and fellow puppy owner Holly Gilbert, former features editor for The Oakland Press: “Don't give your dogs Nylabones. Trust me on this one. Hugo is fine now but it was a long night and an expensive trip to the vet.”

            Hugo is her very gorgeous parti-colored Standard Poodle, who is a couple of months older than Vito. Holly said Hugo had eaten both knobs off a chicken-flavored Nylabone, and then spent the next six hours throwing up. She and her husband Garry rushed him to the vet. Some $230 later, Hugo was deemed okay, but he needed medication for irritation from ingested bone bits.

            Quite a rollicking Facebook conversation followed Holly’s news. One woman wrote that besides Nylabones, pet owners are not supposed to give dogs rawhide bones or “greenies.” I have no idea what a “greenie” is, but it sounds like a doggie doobie to me.

            Another of Holly’s friends wrote: “I read Cesar Milan's (The Dog Whisperer) website and he suggested Bully sticks ... they stink to high heaven but my dog cannot seem to break off little chunks, he just chews and chews and when it is a nub we throw it away.”

            Yes, if you read a Dog Whisperer book, you know that Cesar Milan is a big fan of bully sticks. I don’t know if you are familiar with the things, but if you aren’t you may want to stop reading now, or at least set yourself up with a barf bag, because bully sticks are dried bull penises that are smoked and then cut to size. Who thought up that one? Dried bull penises, no wonder they stink!

            Anyway, after Hugo’s ordeal, I’m going to throw away Vito’s Nylabone. But I don’t know if I’m going to replace it with a bully stick. Vito loves to chew on bones, and I love Vito. But the thought of picking up the leftover chunk of a soft, soggy, chewed-up bull penis is farther than I’d be willing to go, even for Vito.

            That still leaves Vito needing something to chew on.

            Any of you dudes out there know where I can buy a greenie?

Shark!

I renewed my Valium prescription after overdosing on The Discovery Channel’s Shark Week. Did you see some of those shows? Monstrous sharks that skyrocket 15 feet out of the water to wrap their jaws around giant birds in flight. And how about those nuts, victims of a shark attack, who can’t wait to get back in the water with them?
Now I see man-eaters everywhere.
Check out this innocent and touching portrait of Christina and Vito on a Northern Michigan dock. Now look at the background.
Shark!

Mario and Luigi

            A devoted Veni, Vidi, Vito reader – okay, okay, it’s my brother Michael – recently commented that Vito always looks like he is having fun when he is with Nick.

            Nowhere was this more apparent than during their day at the beach, when I worried that their wild activities would land them on the next episode of that Animal Planet show, “Animal Cops: Detroit.”

            See, there’s no danger of "Animal Cops: Detroit "Rescuer Aaron Miller sniffing out me with his white van. When I’m at the beach with Vito, I do nice activities, like I throw a stick and tell him to fetch it. Vito swims right past the stick, completely ignoring it and me. And I’m just fine with that because television cameras – and handcuffs – are an unlikely result of our small, boring activity.

             But, when Nick plays with Vito, they become completely interactive – like a real-life Mario and Luigi video game.

            On this particular day at the beach, Vito jumped into Nick’s arms, and Nick hurled Vito into the lake. Vito emerged from the water with a crazed smile on his face and begged to be tossed in again. More than happy to oblige, Nick threw him into the lake. This happened over and over.

             “Stop!” I yelled, but just like the stick I threw for him to fetch, Vito completely ignored me. He jumped back in Nick’s arms. Nick acted like he was laughing too hard to answer, but funny enough, he had the energy to toss Vito back in the lake, for the fifteenth time.

            Please don’t tell me if you happen to catch my son and dog on the next episode of  … “Animal Cops: Up North.”

            

Dirt Dogs

When Nick was about seven years old, he watched -- and watched and watched and watched -- “Iron Will,” a movie about a dog sled race. Since then, he’s been hooking up dogs to baby strollers, skateboards, roller blades, and now,  a dirt bike. Here he and Vito blast down the driveway at our northern cottage. 

The Namesake

Don Vito Corleone

“The name of a man is a numbing blow from which he never recovers.”

- Marshall McLuhan (1911-1980)

          It would sadden my mother to see that Frank Sinatra’s grandson -- the son of Frank Sinatra Jr., named Frank Sinatra III -- tried to commit suicide this week. Maybe at some point in the young man’s life the name Frank Sinatra turned from an advantage to a burden. The original Frank was a cool cat and his pipes were a gift from God. That kind of swag probably can’t be duplicated, no matter what your name is.

             I think it would bother my mom because – as far as I know -- during her life she was in love with only two men: my father and Old Blue Eyes.

            Everyone knew that Palma loved Frankie – as a singer, of course. But one day, when I was about 12, I made a chilling discovery.

             As I flipped through my mom’s telephone book, where she wrote the names and phone numbers of her friends, I saw it. I looked again, but there it was, in her very own handwriting:

            Frank Sinatra … TW3-3713

            My mother had Frank Sinatra’s personal phone number. She was having a relationship with Frank Sinatra!

            I confronted her. “What’s this?” I pointed to his name and number in the little black book. “Frank Sinatra! Is he your boyfriend?”

            I couldn’t believe her reaction. I had caught her in the act, but apparently she was so good at the art of deception, she acted nonplussed. Calmly, she held out her hand for me to pass her the book. I slapped it into her palm and awaited her explanation.

            “Yes, we know Frank Sinatra,” she said calmly and handed me back the phone book. “He lives by grandma and grandpa on Santa Rosa.”

            “Why do you have his number?” I accused.

            “He helped grandpa paint the back of the house, where the boarders lived. I kept it in case we needed a painter.”

            “The painter’s name is Frank Sinatra?” I just could not let this go.

            “The Frank Sinatra in my phone book is older than Frankie. He was Frank Sinatra first.”

            Deflated from the reasonableness of the anticlimactic explanation, I returned my mom’s little black book to her desk, and right then I decided not to name my future children after famous people. I think celebrities should follow that rule, too. Being named after an iconic relative is just too much pressure. 

            My advice is to name your loved ones something normal, you know, like we did with our dog, Don Vito Corleone Pedersen. 

Don Vito Corleone Pedersen

Bad Computer

“Log off, that "cookies" **** makes me nervous!”
- Tony Soprano
The Sopranos

I’ve been on a bad roll with computer technology. The most recent frustration occurred Sunday, when I tried to post a funny video of Vito fighting a water cooler.
Any regular reader of Veni, Vidi, Vito could testify that I occasionally post videos, and I have never had any trouble getting the suckers to upload. But yesterday, for some inexplicable reason, the blog gods refused to cooperate.
There’s a “help” button on the top bar of the blog, so I clicked it, but that lead to more questions than answers because “help” comes from a “forum” of other technologically challenged bloggers, who cry on each other’s virtual shoulders. The whole help-forum is like a monkey teaching a chimp how to drive a car -- nobody has any business being behind the wheel of that vehicle.
Then, two weeks ago, I woke up and checked my e-mail. There were 1,200 returned messages from Mr. Viagra-Cialis, which ended up in my computer mailbox, all at 4:25 that morning. While I may lead a boring life, suffice it to say that it’s not bad enough that I would spend time sending Mr. Viagra-Cialis 1,200 emails. To add insult to injury, I got a terse e-mail from AOL saying that I had misbehaved and had broken the Terms and Agreement contract I once signed. I wrote back and said that I am the victim here!
Before I knew it, AOL kicked me off -- no more email privileges.
Thankfully, AOL does have professionals that one can correspond with, and they detected I had been a casualty of a password-stealing hacker. Within a half hour, I was re-instated.
About six months ago, many of my Facebook friends got a message from me that offered colon-cleansing services. That was embarrassing. Once again, I fell prey to password-stealing mischief.
These hackers have become pests in my life. The only way it’s going to stop is if Mr. Viagra-Cialis finds the password-stealing hacker and gives him a good, old-fashioned colon cleansing.

Technical difficulties

Dear Readers,
Veni, Vidi, Vito is experiencing technical difficulties with video. Your patience is appreciated.

Wise Guys

“You know, we always called each other goodfellas. Like you said to, uh, somebody, ‘You're gonna like this guy. He's all right. He's a good fella. He's one of us.’ You understand? We were goodfellas. Wiseguys.”

- Henry Hill

Goodfellas

            Kathleen, Janice and I met for a bon voyage dinner for Liz, who was scheduled to move to Atlanta in three days. Liz planned to duct tape her furniture against the walls of some kind of  “moving pod” and drive down there in her Jetta. Her two cats and one dog were going to fill the back seat.  As if that wasn’t enough, she planned to videotape the entire journey.

            Liz has one of those wise guy personalities, funny as heck, and she doesn’t miss a trick. So, during dinner, talked turned to my blog. I saw a twinkle in her eye, and knew she was going to stick it to me about some crazy thing I wrote.

            “So, you keep Vito on a leash while he’s in the lake,” declared Liz, in reference to my previous entry “Mush?” It’s a photo where Vito looks like he’s a sled dog, only he’s racing through the water tethered with a red leash to our dock.

            Kathleen and Janice looked at me for an answer. I realized Liz just said what they were thinking: “Hey, Annemarie, cut the cord.”

            “But I’m afraid,” I said. “It’s because of what happened with Misha, two dogs ago.”

            When we were newlyweds, Brian surprised me with Misha, a pretty black and brown German Shepherd mix. She was sweet and stubborn.

            One day we let her loose in the lake at our cottage. Immediately, she doggie paddled toward the center.

            “Misha,” I said calmly. “Come back here.” She steamed ahead away from shore. Her long body reminded me of a submarine that skimmed the ocean.

            “Misha, get back here,” my voice became tense. She ignored me and kept swimming to the middle of the lake.

            Three-year-old twins Beth and Nick began to scream in their high-pitched voices, “Misha, come back!” She swam faster. Her head started to look smaller. She was really going full throttle.

            “Misha!” Brian bellowed, “Get back here!”

            At this point, she began to turn, and we thought she had finally come to her senses and was ready to swim back to us. But she kept circling – completely back to her starting point, then forward again, toward the middle of the lake.

            Spewing a litany of swear words, Brian ran up to the cottage to get the keys to the pontoon boat.

            In the meantime, I watched her paddle farther away in complete disbelief at her disobedience. “Snot.” I said under my breath, but little people have big ears. Beth shook her head like a little old lady, and repeated, “Snot.” Nick shouted at the near-disappearing Misha, “Snot!”

            Boat key in hand, Brian ran to the lake and jumped on the pontoon boat, started the motor, and backed it up. I stood in the water, praying, because I saw her head begin to bob up and down.

            Brian turned the boat toward the center of the lake and zoomed toward Misha. He stopped nearly in the middle. He bent down, and I lost sight of him. Now I worried that he was struggling in his attempt to save Misha. I felt very upset, but I didn’t want to scare the kids, who themselves were getting on my last nerve because they continued to chant the word “snot” like it was their new mantra.

            After what felt like an eternity, I saw Brian haul this huge, brown blob into the boat. He had Misha. The twins and I cheered.

            “I got there just in time,” yelled Brian as he pulled up in the boat. “She never would have made it to shore.”

            First I wanted to kiss Misha, and then I wanted to throttle her, but before I could do either, she shook herself and got me sopping wet. Then, with her nose in the air, she turned toward the cottage and trotted up there, where she slept straight until the next day.

            “And that’s how Misha ruined it for the rest of our dogs,” I said. “After that, they all get the leash.”

            Liz, in particular, loved this story, and why wouldn’t she? She and Misha have a few things in common -- they share an adventurous spirit, and they’re both a couple of wise guys.

            There’s also a difference. Liz is going to make it to shore just fine, all on her own.

                       

           

                         

           

Mush?

Photo by Brian Pedersen

  

It’s been a hot July, and Siberian Husky Vito is dying for the cold to return, but where did he find a sled to pull and snow this time of year? He’s actually mushing through a lake in Northern Michigan. 

Weepanomics Camp

Carmela Soprano: “Now go upstairs and do your math.”

Anthony Junior: “Algebra? That's the most boring.”

Tony Soprano: “Well, your other choice is sufferin.' You wanna start now?”

- The Sopranos

            Vito bumped me so he could be the first in the car as Brian, Christina, and I set forth on a journey to Economics Camp. Yes, you read that correctly. Economics Camp. Economics Camp is located in a Godforsaken land two hours south and west of Oakland County.

            Christina had given up a week of summer vacation to spend at Econ Camp, where perhaps right now she sits enraptured in the “Scarcity and Choice” class or the “Foreign Currencies/Foreign Exchange” seminar.

            All I have to say is that the teacher-of-the-year award should go to Kathryn Gustafson of Farmington High School. Who else but Mrs. Gustafson could get 17-year-old social butterfly Christina to take a week away from her gaggle of friends to discover the wonders of “Cartels and Competition?”

            Anyway, for some reason beyond what I can comprehend – I think someone told there’d be cute guys -- Christina had been looking forward to this for a long time. And I was anxious too, but for a different reason. With her at camp, and Nick and Beth living in Ann Arbor, it was going to be the first time that for a whole week Brian and I would be the sole Lord and Lady of the manor.

            I dreamed about what that would be like. We could do whatever we wanted without worrying about being role models. We could blast Billy Joel over the speakers, eat junk for dinner, and watch “Hung” on HBO -- you know, the dangerous stuff.

            The ride to camp was cheery, and Vito had a perpetual smile on his face. Christina thought it was because he was happy to see all the farm animals we passed, but I think he was relieved because it wasn’t he that had to go to Econ Camp.

            The college that housed Econ Camp was a stately place, very proper and serious. We left Vito in the car, got Christina set up in her dorm room, and then there was nothing left but to say goodbye.

            She walked us out the car, where I whispered in her ear that she could still break out while she had the chance. We gave each other kisses and hugs, and it was a nice moment.

            Brian and I drove off, and we weren’t on the road for one block when something primal, deep, and sad overtook me. I began to blubber like Lindsay Lohan running low on diet pills. Christina hadn’t been out of my sight for one minute, and I missed her like I’d been without her for four hundred years.

            So much water squirted out of my eyes that Brian had to pull over and wipe off the windshield, from the inside.

            “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I used an old napkin to blow my nose. “Probably the thought of Econ Camp is boring me to tears.”

            Brian patted me on the leg, “I think you’re crying because you realize your baby is almost all grown up.”

            “Yes,” I blurted out, “I think you’re right,” and a new set of tears exploded.

            From behind my shoulder I felt a wet tongue on my cheek. Vito! I had totally forgotten about him during my crying jag, he had been so quite in the back. He licked my chin, nose, forehead, and even my eyeglasses. He was so enthusiastic, his gesture so earnest, that now I laughed. My sad mood had passed on.

            I don’t know if it was because of Vito, or because with each passing mile we got farther away from the study of Economics, but once again I felt fine.

           

           

Glandular Problems

“Look how they massacred my boy.”

- Don Corleone

The Godfather

            The receptionist at the veterinarian office said to call around one o’clock for an update on Vito. By then, he would be neutered and in recovery.

            At 11 a.m., my cell phone rang. Caller ID flashed the vet’s office. Why were they calling? I was supposed to call them in two hours for an update. My mind jumped right to the worst scenario: Vito had died on the operating table.

            I answered sotto voce, because I was already in mourning.

It was the veterinarian himself! I gasped back my tears. The Big Gun was going to deliver the bad news. I saved him the effort.

            “Vito’s dead.”  I declared and grabbed my chest to hold together my broken heart.

            “What?” he asked. “Oh, no. He did fine. But we did find something on him.”

            My mind went straight to tumors -- I was certain Vito was loaded with them.

            “How many malignancies?” I asked bravely. “Give it to me straight, Doc.”

            I took his silence to mean that it was worse than even I could imagine.

            “We didn’t find tumors, Mrs. Pedersen,” he finally spoke.” Nothing like that. We found fleas.”
            “Fleas!” I shouted. Tumors I could understand, but fleas? “We give him baths. I never saw any fleas.”

            “His fur is so thick,” said the vet, “You wouldn’t have been able to see them.” He said he had given Vito a flea treatment, and that I would have to buy medicine and squirt it in his fur every month to keep him bug-free.

            “There was something else …” he said. What more could there be than fleas? “We expressed his anal glands,” he continued.

            “You what?” My ears heard what he said, but my mind would not grasp the amount of dirty, disgusting things wrong with Vito’s body.

            “He had fecal material in there,” said the vet. “In a couple of hours he’ll be good to go. Around four o’clock, you can come and get him.”

            “I don’t want him anymore,” I said, but the vet had already hung up.

            When I got there, Vito wasn’t quite ready to leave. In the meantime, the technician went over all the at-home post-surgical instructions. Then she presented the bill, which was $401.

            When I grasped the counter to keep from fainting, she saw it was necessary for her to explain the bloated bill. The flea bath and the anal sac service alone was more than $150. Oh, and she had forgotten to add something. She wanted me to buy a plastic cone that was to go around Vito’s neck as a barrier to prevent him from licking his wound. I must have looked like I wanted to bite her because she offered another solution.

            “Or you could put a pair of boxer shorts on him,” she said.

            “What do I do with his tail?”

             “Pull it through the fly.”

            It was a weird idea, but it was free, so I told her I’d try it.

            As I waited for them to bring me Vito, I sat next to a lumber jack-sort of gentleman.

            “You want to save some money next time?” he asked.

            What good luck! I had actually positioned myself next to a person who had unlocked the secret on how to pay less in the animal-hospital money pit.

             “Learn how to squeeze the anal glands yourself,” he said. “That’s what I do.” He then acted out the way he performed the procedure. “Insert your finger into your dog’s  ... The glands are located at 4 o’clock and 8 o’clock … When you feel the blockage …”

            Before he finished, the receptionist called my name. Vito was ready to go home. I excused myself and almost got away before the unthinkable happened. The anal gland-squeezer grabbed my hand and gave it a hearty shake.

            “Good luck,” he said.

            I stared at my hand as if the man hadn’t washed his own since he last expressed his dog’s anus. Immediately, I began to itch and I swear I saw a flea on me.

            Vito came out from the back, and he looked great: no fleas, clean glands, and ready to begin anew.

             As for me, I left freaked-out, buggy, and broke. And the day was far from over. I still had to get Vito into a pair of boxer shorts.           

           

           

           

           

            

Vito with David Bowie Eyes

                                                                               Photo by Chris Ryba

            David Bowie has one blue eye, and one that is green or brown, depending on the light.

            Vito also has two different color eyes.

            The right is solid brown. The left is a scrambled combination of brown, green and blue.

            It’s not uncommon for Siberian Huskies to have this trait, but still, I wonder if he sees all right out of the mixed-color eye. For example, he cannot catch a treat with his mouth. No matter how slowly and directly we toss it, Vito stands stiff and seems to look at, well, nothing. Then he wiggles his nose and sniffs the floor to find it.

            Farmington teenager Chris Ryba puppy sat one day. He snapped this photo that shows Vito’s bi-colored eyes.

             Chris is headed to The University of Michigan to study engineering. He's also an accomplished photographer.

            To view more of Chris’s photos, go to www.chrisryba.smugmug.com.

            The photos are quite good -- a feast for your eyes, whichever color combination they may happen to be.

Jackie Lambchops

“I won’t pay. I know too much about extortion.”
- Tony Soprano
The Sopranos

I have a pet peeve -- rich celebrities who won’t pay their bills.
Washed-up diva Mariah Carey is the latest deadbeat. Carey, who is pregnant with child, owes her veterinarian $30,000. The vet is suing her for nonpayment of “extraordinary services.” The dogs involved are Jack Russell terriers, Cha-Cha, Dolomite and JJ. Since then, Carey’s added another dog, Jackie Lambchops (I read that when she refers to Jackie Lambchops, she uses a Tony Soprano accent).
How could she owe a vet $30,000? What were the “extraordinary procedures? Did the dogs get nose jobs?
According to the lawsuit, the original bill was $38,000 (of which Carey still allegedly owes $29,559.) The vet, a Dr. Cindy Bressler from Manhattan, made a house call to Southern California, where Carey and two of the dogs were hanging out to promote her movie “Precious.”
While there, the vet supervised the birth of dog No. 3, Dolomite. Apparently, the vet took care of the new puppy, and the other dogs, for the whole month following the puppy’s birth.
If this is how Carey acts with her dogs, I wonder how she’ll be as a mother.
If I were Carey’s obstetrician, I would get her credit card number up front – and a forwarding address, in case she forgets to take the baby home.

Rich Dog, Poor Dog

F. Scott Fitzgerald: “The rich are different than you and me.”
Ernest Hemingway: “Yes, they have more money.”

Hemingway’s famous zinger is said to have never happened. But of the two great American writers, I have always liked the hunky Hemingway – rugged Michigander that he was – more than the fragile Fitzgerald. So, in my mind, the conversation stands.
The quote – real or not -- popped in my head as I read about Conchita, a thin, spa-loving, diamond-draped heiress that is in the middle of one of America’s most spiteful estate battles.
But Conchita isn’t your ordinary heiress. She is a Chihuahua, a dog that the late Miami Heiress Gail Posner elevated to the status of surrogate child. Once, Conchita nearly choked on a $15,000 Cartier necklace she wore as a collar. The dog also owned its own gold Cadillac Escalade.
Posner died in March and left Conchita, and her two other dogs, an $8.3 million mansion, plus $3 million in trust funds. Posner’s son, the bratty Bret Carr, who was once arrested for counterfeiting, has unsurprisingly disputed the will.
Posner’s servant, a woman named Queen Elizabeth Beckford, received $5 million to care for Conchita, and two other dogs and some turtles, at the mansion. Beckford has to do things like take care of the dogs’ four-season wardrobe and their diamond jewelry. She also takes them to their weekly spa treatments, where they get a mani-pedi on their claws. When Conchita and the other creatures die, the rest of the inheritance is supposed to go to charity.
Conchita has lots of material things, but I wonder if she is a happy dog. The servants put up with all this excessive nonsense because Conchita is the source of their huge paychecks. When Conchita dies, so does the gravy train. To Posner’s bitter son, Conchita is the symbol of his mother’s complete rejection. That’s a whole lot of human dysfunction for poor Conchita to carry on her teeny-tiny shoulders.
When I finished reading about the feud, I looked at Vito, who scratched at the window. With his paw, he batted down a fly, caught it in his mouth, and swallowed it. Satisfied with his snack, he sniffed his way to his toy tiger, which I bought for him at the dollar store. He proceeded to bite its leg.
Vito’s nails are a bit ragged. His collar is nylon. He doesn’t own a wig, but even so, he seems happy.
A fly to catch, a toy to chew, fresh water, healthy food, and a family of best friends: what more could a dog want?
Hemingway was right. The rich do have more money, but less sense.

Corvette Vito

Brian brought home a ZO6 Corvette for a week as part of the General Motors Ambassador Program.
The program asks employees to drive new, cool vehicles, which helps them better understand the company’s cars. It also encourages them to become strong sales ambassadors for GM products.
Brian took the $75,000 car all over metro Detroit, including Ann Arbor, where Nick and Beth had the opportunity to drive it around campus.
Even 17-year-old Christina took a turn at the wheel. Brian said she did better than me. I’m not that great with a stick shift. When the light turned green at Grand River and Drake in Farmington, I shifted into first and tapped the gas. It was too much. I laid a patch and felt like an idiot.
All week, Vito watched from the front window as we backed out of the driveway and took off in the low, sleek automobile.
On the last day, after the people were all done with the Corvette, it was finally Vito’s turn to go for a ride.

Dad's Whiskey

Vito’s mouth looks like he’s sucked on a baby bottle of Mountain Dew night and day since birth.
In a few short days, he lost nearly half of his puppy teeth. Right now he’s missing all four canines and a bunch of molars.
Throughout the house, droplets of blood from his gums dot the floor. So do his teeth. We step on them and shriek.
Vito himself moans. He is in terrible pain as adult teeth break through his gums.
When my children were babies and lost their teeth, they would run a fever and cry. With the twins, the teething woes doubled. I bought lots of Baby Tylenol.
My father, who was born in the old country, didn’t like that I gave his grandchildren store-bought painkiller. He worried it would hurt them. He wanted me to do what his mother did when her babies were in teething agony.
“Rub whiskey on their gums,” he said. “Just a drop. It helps them sleep.”
His medical advice, which he gave freely, always scared me because my dad came from a small town where the barber doubled as the doctor. The barber could cut your hair and repair your punctured eardrum, all in the same visit.
I told him that here, in the new country, we had powerful chemicals to knock the pain out. Sure, if one accidentally happened to give a kid too much, it could cause liver failure, but that hardly ever happened.
My dad has been gone a while, and it’s been ages since my children lost teeth. My heart ached for Vito because it seemed like his mouth really hurt. I wanted to help him, but I realized we hadn’t had children’s pain reliever in the house for years.
Every time Vito cried in misery, my dad’s words ran through my head.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. There was an ancient bottle -- given to us by my dad -- of Seagram’s VO in the cabinet. I asked Nick to see if he could find the brown bottle. He located it, and I poured some in a shot glass, dipped my finger in, and rubbed it on Vito’s gums. The puppy seemed to smile. His body seemed to relax. It seemed to work. I dipped and rubbed Vito’s gums a few more times over the next couple of days, and it always seemed to settle him.
My dad would have been pleased with the way his whiskey worked. I wish he’d been here to see it -- and to meet his gummy-mouthed grandpup.

Genes

“It’s in his blood, this miserable existence. My rotten, putrid genes have infected my kid’s soul. That is my gift to my son.”
- Tony Soprano
The Sopranos (“Walk Like a Man”)

Vito is nearly flunking puppy school. He continues to stink at “heel.” He will not walk next to me. He’s always in front.
The teacher said he is trying to be the boss of me, and that I need to be firmer with him. When I deepen my voice to command him to heel, he does turn around and look at me with what appears to be a big, excited smile. Then he just pulls harder.
I have been depressed about this. Neither Vito nor I are ignorant, so why, I keep pondering, is this so difficult for us?
Then I saw this video of Nick and Vito. Everything became clear.
Walking next to me may not be in Vito’s DNA.

Russian Brides Caused My Breakup

Paulie Walnuts: (on Russians) “I don't even know why we deal with these people.”

Tony Soprano: “Wanna guess?”

Paulie: “They make us money.”

Tony: “Thank you.”

- The Sopranos

             It was only a matter of time before the break up. In the end, what good could possibly come from a Russian mail-order bride website? Because of the brides, I lost it all.

            The ads on my blog were removed because I violated terms of a virtual contract. I promised I wouldn’t click the ads on my own blog and artificially pump the numbers. Considering my high-degree of nosiness, I was fairly good at resisting the urge.

            Then I wrote a blog in which my son Nick and our Siberian Husky Vito performed a goofy “Russian” dance. That’s the day the Russian mail-order bride ads began. Via my blog, I clicked on a mail-order bride ad, and a dozen photos of Eastern European seductresses appeared. The pictures actually moved. Vera stroked her hair. Irina danced. I felt like a voyeur and quickly exited the site. But I yearned to visit the Eastern bloc beauties again. I clicked. Natasha wiggled. I was infatuated.

            Anna, with her “Hello Kitty” bikini top, winked at me. I poured a glass of wine and winked back.

            I read the romantic story of Ekatrina, who thought she’d “never find such a good man like my future husband Tommy.”

            I returned to the site to keep up with aspiring bride Olga, who sat tipped on her bar chair. Her future husband sat across from her, his hands and legs crossed. He looked sinister, like a Euro gangster. I began to worry about Olga. I thought she was moving too fast.

            “Dmitri came to Armenia for 18 days and we beacame (sic) engaged,” she wrote. “Now the sweetest word is his name and the greatest thing is his love … I hope in the quietest (sic) of the night, when I whisper out to you, you know just what to do. Darling, listen to hear my voice echoing how much I love you.”

            I checked …. click, click, click … for updates on Olga. Was she okay? Did Dmitri know what to do in the  “quietest” of the night?

            I appealed to get the ads back and lost. Apparently, my transgressions were too egregious.

            I hope Olga has more luck with Dmitri than I had with ads.

  

Circle of Life

Tommy: “Well, the poor thing, it got-- I hit him and this, uh-- We hit the deer and his paw -- What do you call that?”

Tommy's Mother: “The paw?”

Tommy: “The paw, the...”


Tommy's Mother: “The foot.” 


Jimmy: “The hoof.” 


Tommy: “Yeah, the hoof got caught in the grill and I gotta, I gotta hack it off.”

Tommy's Mother: “Ooh.”

Tommy: “Ah, Ma, it's a sin, I can't leave it there, you know.”

 - Goodfellas

            So far, we’ve been very lucky with Vito. He doesn’t eat stuff  -- not a shoe, a cupboard door, or a piece of furniture – until now.

            Vito recently discovered this knickknack, which I keep on sill of our kitchen bay window. I thought it was safe because while he often looked at it, he never made a move to touch it.

             I have always enjoyed this trinket because it told a story. I think of a farm mother who made a pie and set it on the window to cool. Then kitty got a whiff of the sweet treat, and snuck a bite.  After his mischief, the cat gave himself a bath with his paw.

            Like the kitty, Vito succumbed to temptation. He could not resist biting off a piece of the ceramic cat’s ear.

            The cat eats ma’s pie. The dog eats the cat’s ear. What's next?

            Vito better be careful. Somewhere there’s a lion curious about the taste of Siberian Husky.

It's a Dog's Wife

“I thought therapy was going to clear up the freak show in his head.”

- Carmela Soprano (on her husband Tony).

The Sopranos

            Dog Whisperer Cesar Millan and his wife are splitting after 16 years of marriage. I’m not surprised.

            Currently, I’m reading Cesar’s newest book, “How to Raise the Perfect Dog.”  I’m sure Cesar is absolutely correct about everything he preaches regarding animals, especially his ideas on doggie psychology.

            I am glad Cesar writes his books and makes his TV show, but I think he spends too much time in the dog world to be there for his wife, a woman named Illusion.

            While the couple announced their divorce this week, it seems Illusion has always struggled with Cesar’s alpha male personality. The following quotes from Illusion and Cesar appeared fours years ago, in a 2006 New Yorker story, “What the Dog Saw.”  

            “Cesar was a machoistic, egocentric person who thought the world revolved around him,” Illusion said of their first few years together. “His view was that marriage was where a man tells a woman what to do. Never give affection. Never give compassion or understanding. Marriage is about keeping the man happy, and that's where it ends.”

            Early in their marriage, Illusion got sick and was in the hospital for three weeks. “Cesar visited once, for less than two hours,” she said. “I thought to myself, ‘This relationship is not working out.’ He just wanted to be with his dogs.”

            To save the marriage, Illusion insisted Cesar go to couples therapy. She found a woman therapist, who took Cesar to task.

            The psychologist told him, “You want your wife to take care of you, to clean the house. Well, she wants something, too. She wants your affection and love.'”

            Illusion remembers Cesar scribbling furiously on a pad. “He wrote that down,” she said. “He said, ‘That's it! It's like the dogs. They need exercise, discipline, and affection.’” Illusion said she looked at him, upset. “Why the hell are you talking about your dogs when you should be talking about us?” she asked.

             Regarding the therapy, Cesar reportedly said to the New Yorker, “I was fighting it. Two women against me, blah, blah, blah ...”

            In his current book, in a chapter about walking a dog, here’s what Cesar said about his relationship with his Pit Bull, Daddy:

             “I credit much of my intimate, almost psychic relationship with Daddy to the thousands and thousands of perfect walks we have completed together.”

            He’s had  “thousands and thousands” of “perfect walks” with his Pit Bull?

            I wonder how many times he invited his wife on a walk?

Punk

“But Vito is only nine. And dumb-witted. The child cannot harm you.”

- Signora Andolini

The Godfather II           

            In four hours puppy class will be in session, and my stomach hurts.

             Because of Vito’s ridiculous behavior when we’re there, I now realize the two are related.

             I asked Brian to call the teacher and lie to her that Vito and I will be absent because I’m in the hospital with abdomen pains. I asked him to say that while the doctors aren’t sure what I have, they know I’ll be hospitalized past the remaining class dates.

            But Brian is one of those annoying ethical types. He said he wasn’t going to lie. He said I should talk to the teacher and tell her my concerns. I told him to get me a baseball bat so I could slam it into my appendix, bust the sucker, and give myself peritonitis.

            “Then you can call with a clear conscious,” I said in a huff.

            It’s not like the teachers are mean. They encourage. “Don’t judge your puppy against the others,” they say. “All puppies are unique and progress at their own rate,” they reassure.

            But I have eyes. I can see Vito – with his playful disobedience – is the class bad boy. Vito is quite nice at home, but when he gets around his peers, he becomes a punk.

            Even Mia, his Golden Retriever girlfriend and classmate, finds him annoying. Two weeks ago, he went too far with her. He had recently lost some puppy teeth, and his gums were raw. He jumped on her and his mouth bled all over her beautiful auburn coat. The instructors removed Mia from class and gave her a scrub down. Since then, Mia will barely look at him.

            At the beginning of class last week, we practiced “heel.” The first couple of times Vito walked next to me like a champ. But by Round 3, he got bored and acted up. While all the other dogs trotted next to their owners like they were conjoined twins, Vito either hung behind and nipped me in the butt or pulled ahead and yanked my arm.

            We had only been in class five minutes, and he gathered negative attention like a wolf at a gingerbread man convention. 

            The teacher pulled us aside.

            “In this class we don’t train your dog,” she said. “We train you to train your dog.” Basically, she said I was a wimp, and that Vito made himself the leader of our pack.

            After our talk with the teacher, Vito got worse. Even though he’s housebroken and had gone outside right before class, he urinated twice on the classroom floor during the session. He slipped out of his collar, which was attached to his leash, and he ran haywire around the room, which incited a near riot among the other animals.

            While this happened, I put in a 9-1-1 call to the Dog Whisperer. He didn’t pick up. No matter. I doubt even he could have gotten control of the situation.

            After we corralled Vito back into his collar, he barked incessantly. I couldn’t even hear what the teacher tried to say to me.

             We made absolutely no progress; in fact, we have probably gotten farther behind because now it seems that Vito thinks he is pack leader of the class.

            I have some advice for our teacher: get a fake illness and call in sick next week.

           

             

Baby Boomers and Their Pooches: Snapshots

            Pottery, jewelry, and paintings were the main attraction at Art on the Grand on Grand River in downtown Farmington Saturday.

            Business was good, and lots of folks strolled the booths with their four-legged friends.                       

  Alice, Dublin and Sligo

Sligo was found, with his siblings, in a garbage can. The three-week-old puppies were thrown away. Alice Antoniotti of Farmington Hills adopted Sligo, and he has thrived under her care. Her other dog, Dublin, is a 12-year-old Brittany, who is losing his sight. Five-year-old Sligo’s ancestry is unknown, but Alice thinks he looks like a fox. The dogs were named for towns in Ireland.

Cinnamon and Renita

Renita Mayberry of Wixom took seven-month old Cinnamon, a Jack Russell Terrier, to Art on the Grand to get the puppy used to people. She adopted Cinnamon because “nobody wanted her, so I said I want her.” Renita says Cinnamon “peps” her up. “I feel young again.”

LiveStatue

LiveStatue fooled me. At first, I thought he was a new piece of sculpture in downtown Farmington. Then I saw him blink. LiveStatue is really Robert Shangle of Sparta. He is an award-winning performance artist. LiveStatue’s dog is an UnAlive prop.

Hail Cezar!

            (Cezar and his owner Tom Gammerath help form the tunnel for the Wixom Wildcats. Photo by Joe Schiavi.)

            Cezar may have a few issues, but loving his family is not one of them.

            The two-year-old Alaskan Malamute has practically eaten through the inside of a truck door and crashed through a glass house window to get to his family, Tom and Bonnie Gammerath of Commerce Township, and their sons Zachery, 11, and Luke, 8.

            Cezar is also the No. 1 canine fan of Zachery’s and Luke’s soccer teams, the U-11 and U-9 Wixom Wildcats. After every game, Wildcat parents form a tunnel that team members run through. Cezar hikes up on his hind legs and becomes one with the tunnel. The Wildcats have even included Cezar in their team photos.

            “Cezar loves all the kids,” said Bonnie. “My two-year-old niece can take food right out of his mouth. But he has terrible separation anxiety.”

             Marley, the Golden Retriever in John Grogan’s best-selling book “Marley & Me,” has nothing on Cezar, said Bonnie.

            “One day I stopped at an estate sale and left Cezar in my Ford Expedition – a truck,” said Bonnie. “I stayed on the grass, in his sight. You could hear him screaming in the truck. I asked my son to run to the car to get my purse, and he came back and said, ‘Mom, you’re not going to like what you see.’ Cezar ate a huge hole in the door. In 15 minutes!”

            Another time, the family left Cezar home, in his crate. When they returned, they found that he had dragged the crate 15 feet, rolled it over, and shattered its bottom – all while he was still in the crate. Once, he ate an entire lasagna, and half the glass pan. What followed was an expensive trip to the vet.

            Recently, Bonnie pretended to leave Cezar, but she actually spied on him to discover exactly what he went through when he was left alone. First he began to tremble and then drool poured from his mouth

             “Dripping and shaking,” said Bonnie. “He just wants to be with his human pack.”

            Now, Connie takes him where she can. He’s a favorite at Luke’s elementary school bus stop. Cezar walks up the steps into the bus, trots down the aisle, turns around, and comes back. The kids pet him as he passes. Zachery’s middle school bus driver always has treats ready for Cezar.

             Cezar may be the king of half-eaten doors, broken glass, and drool. But he’s also a goodwill ambassador to his subjects –the soccer players, school kids, and tunnel builders -- who make up his empire.