Salute!

   

            Don Corleone: “I like to drink wine more than I used to ... Anyway, I'm drinking more.”

            Michael: “It's good for you, Pop.”

            Don Corleone: “Ah, I don't know ...”

             The Godfather

           

            Long ago, I was features editor at The Oakland Press, and then I disappeared (no, I wasn’t in witness protection, I raised a family and a couple of dogs).

             Much has changed in journalism since I left The Oakland Press. Features columns have nearly faded away. I miss the funny stories of syndicated Columnist Erma Bombeck and former Press Columnist Ginny Stolicker.

            But some things about today’s newspapers are better -- they’re called blogs. I like blogs because they’re cool, they read quickly, and they have a funny name. And they’re democratic. Anyone can start a blog. Then anyone – in the world -- can read it.

            Three months ago, I combined my love of features columns and blogs and created “Veni, Vidi, Vito,” a blog about how one puppy came, saw, and conquered my near empty nest.

            I’m very excited that The Oakland Press has added “Veni,Vidi, Vito”  to its blog lineup.

             Though Siberian Husky Vito is my muse, the blog is really about the people I know and love. I also plan to check out what other baby boomers are doing with their dogs, and with their families.

            To introduce Vito and myself to new readers, I have reworked the first two blogs that appeared in “Vendi, Vidi, Vito.” They follow.

            While you read, I’ll pour myself a glass of wine.

             Salute!

             

Puppy Chronicles (Feb. 16, 2010)

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

- Michael Corleone,

The Godfather: Part III

            Freedom teased like a chocolate sundae on a hot August evening. My mouth watered. But just before I began to bite, I got bit.

            Puppies have an oral fixation.

            This was an unusual time in my life to commit to a dog. To raise three kids takes stamina, about as much energy as it would take to hike from Michigan to the North Pole, via Alaska. With the twins on their way to graduate school, and the teenager in her junior year of high school, I estimate there are 25 miles left before I hit my destination, the top of the world. Now add in a puppy, and I’m back to, say, British Columbia. Four steps forward, three back.

            We've had a lot of pets, so I knew what I was in for. Carcasses of countless creatures that have occupied our home for the past 20 years are buried in shoeboxes in the backyard. Broken Habitrail tubes and cracked fish bowls from our house alone will clutter landfills for the next 4,000 years.

            Our best pet, Sergei, a gray and white Siberian, died on Memorial Day weekend, and I imagine he runs free in the wide, open ranges of Husky Heaven. He suffered a lot before he died, so it was a relief for both of us to be free of his pain.

            Soon after he was gone, I began to dream of my future with my husband: Brian and I sipping Tequila Sunrises and reading best-sellers on the patio; Brian and I grooving to “The Big Chill” soundtrack as we throw a little something together for dinner; Brian and I jumping on whatever plane is available and going where it’s headed because we’re freedom-drunk bohemians.

            But a while after Sergei died, something happened. I missed him more than I enjoyed my empty-nest daydreams. I don’t know why this happened because, on paper, this particular dog didn’t look that great. He sassed back. He picked locks, ran off, and ended up in the dog pound. He stuffed himself like a gluttonous Roman and threw up outside. He was only one animal, but he shed like multiple personalities lived inside him.

            But Sergei was really nice. When I finally sat down after a long day, he moved to be at my side, even when the basketball-size fatty tumors hung from his haunches and weighed on him heavily. If there wasn’t a squirrel in the vicinity, he looked only at me, as if I were the most beautiful being on the planet. He yowled my name, “Uh-ma-reee.” He said he loved me: “I la u.” Brian said if Sergei had lips, we could have had some interesting conversations.

            So I have put my empty-nest dreams on hold.

            Most in my situation will opt for a smaller dog, or a toy breed. But, I have unfinished business with the Huskies. Sergei was smart, and he had a lot of potential, so much of it unused. I imagine he probably could have caught a Frisbee in mid-flight, if I had ever had the time to throw him one.

            But when he was growing up, so were my children. I was immersed in bassoon lessons, hockey teams, and lacrosse tournaments. I taught my kids a lot of neat stuff, but I never really taught Sergei much of anything. I have a little extra time now, so maybe I’m looking for a do-over. Whatever the reason, I haven’t been able to get this particular breed of dog out of my system.

            So I said goodbye mature bliss, long vacations, and undisturbed sleep, and hello potty training, loose teeth and unbridled energy.

            

101 Huskies (Feb. 16, 2010)

            “Do you spend time with your family? Good. Because a man that doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man.”

 - Don Vito Corleone

The Godfather

            I sent an e-mail to Judith Russell of Karnovanda Kennels in Davisburg that we looked to adopt a puppy in the Spring, and within the hour she sent photos of four-week old pups that were available immediately.

            No way would I take on a puppy during the depths of a Michigan winter. My resolution on this was so solid that I absolutely believed it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek at her photos. A minute later, I called her and arranged to view the pups the following day.

            The first wind the kids got that we were getting a puppy came via my text message. I expected their responses to trickle in over the whole afternoon, as usual.

            Immediately, Christina answered, “YES,” repeated a hundred times over three text screens. A second later, Beth shot off a text that Nick had already arranged to pick her up at 3 a.m. that morning, after the bars closed, so she could make the Karnovanda meeting.

            Brian wrote, “POTTY TRAINING IN WINTER???”

            My fingers played dumb, “Huskies don’t get cold.”

            “NOT TALKIN ABOUT HUSKY!”

            “Cell battery dying.” I lied. “GTG.”

           

             We drove up the curved path to Karnovanda, which is situated next to a small icy lake in northern Oakland County. To our right, Siberian Huskies bounced to life as our car approached. Huskies of every size and color jumped on the flat roofs of their doghouses or ran back and forth in their immaculate pens to warmly greet us. These are some of the most beautiful dogs on the whole Animal Planet.

            Judith directed us to her basement, which brimmed with blue ribbons and five-week old Siberian Huskies. She opened the gate to their roomy pen and lifted the pups so that we each had one to hold. We traded them back and forth and took pictures like the paparazzi.

            We finally put them on the floor, and sat ourselves, in the middle of puppy pandemonium. Nick lounged as puppies climbed his legs onto his lap. Three pups wiggled in Beth’s arms. Christina held her camera in one hand and photographed herself with two puppies in the other. Puppies ran loose in every direction. We caught them and hugged them, and we never stopped laughing. It was a real life Disney movie, and we were the stars.

            We chose our puppy, a mysterious-looking black and white fellow with thick fur. We were especially impressed with his dignified demeanor. On the car drive home, we deliberated on his name, perhaps something with an Italian flair.

            We’re part Sicilian, which may be why we use “Godfather” films as a touchstone. When Christina saw the puppy, she described him as a tough guy. Beth said the puppy’s dark and shadowy face reminded her of Marlon Brando as he appeared on the movie poster of  “The Godfather.” As fast as a Mafia hit, the puppy was christened Vito, after Don Vito Corleone.

            We welcomed Vito into “The Family.”

President Obama at The Big House

  “My father is no different than any powerful man, any man with power, like a president or senator.”

  - Michael Corleone

   The Godfather

            If you’ve ever attended a football game at The University of Michigan Big House -- let me tell you something mister -- the place is one man-made catastrophe waiting to happen.

             I’ve been there like 50 times, and when each game is done, I thank the Lord God in heaven that I lived to see another day.

            It used to be that they allowed dozens of single-engine planes, which sported banners, to cross back and forth over the un-helmeted heads of 100,000 trapped football fans. The banners often promoted used-car dealers or politicians. You know, people who you wouldn’t mind dying for if the plane with their banner careened into you and your hot dog. 

            There were also romantic types who hired the planes to pull banners as a creative proposal: “Marry me, Susan, or this plane will plunge into a hell storm on the 50-yard-line. Forever, Ted.”

            Since 9-11, the planes have been prohibited. They’ve been replaced with armed police officers. Last season, there had been a threat of some sort. Police officers perched on the roof of the new suites. They gazed down at the crowd through scopes. That day, I felt like I was at a different sort of “Big House,” the kind where Cockeyed Louie bangs his head on concrete during his daily hour of fresh air in The Yard.

            Anyway, Saturday is the best day in the history of The UM Football Stadium -- our daughter Beth will get her diploma there! Oh, and some guy named President Barack Obama is scheduled to speak there at the same time.

            How exciting is it that the president is speaking at UM’s commencement! And dangerous!!

            There’s a whole bunch of stuff we cannot bring into the stadium, including purses, umbrellas, and multipurpose tools, which is quite an imposition on me because you’d be hard pressed to find me going anywhere without my Leatherman knife.

            If President Obama is nervous about speaking to the big crowd, he can skip over the part where it all seems more manageable if he imagines us in our underwear, because basically after security gets through with us, that’s all we’ll be wearing.

            And who can blame security? Just this week, an armed man, who looked like he could be a UM student, impersonated an officer and was arrested at the airport, where President Obama was just taking to the sky on Air Force One.

            This security issue got me thinking. We can’t bring Vito to The Big House. The five people in our family will be at that stadium Saturday. If the unthinkable occurs, what will happen to our puppy? We’ve hired a couple of Christina’s friends to spend the day with him, but after that, their responsibility is over.

            I think I’ll try and sneak in Vito with us. If something awful happens, it will happen to all six of us.

             I just have to make him look like the rest of the crowd.

             Now, where to buy doggie underwear?

            

             

Nitro, Sir

Don Rubello looks suspiciously at Frank Serpico’s mouse: “What's with the mouse?”
Serpico: “He’s my partner. He sniffs out drugs. You know, I just send him through his little hole, he’s gone for a while, and then he comes back with the heroin.”
Rubello: “Oh, yeah, I heard of that.”
Serpico: “You heard of that? Yeah?”
- "Serpico"

            FARMINGTON HILLS – Nitro is the bomb.

            The majestic five-year-old German Shepherd was a canine celebrity at “It’s a Dog’s Life,” an event at The Costick Center that offered reduced-cost vaccinations for local dogs. “It’s a Dog’s Life” wasn’t all business, though. There was doggie-style fun stuff there too: pet/owner look-a-like contests; ugly dog contests; and vendors galore.

            Hundreds of dogs and their owners attended. Golden Retrievers were dressed as Red Wings fans and dachshunds wore tutus. But no one dog commanded attention like Nitro.

            Nitro was there with his human partner (Not-So-Mean) Officer John Greene of the Detroit Public Safety Dept., police dedicated to keeping Detroit Public Schools safe. The pair gave K-9 demonstrations throughout the day.

            Nitro and Officer Greene are nominated for Police Magazine’s 2010 K-9 Team of the Year. Go Nitro!

            Born in Germany, Nitro has been with the public school police department for four years. His certifications include Narcotics, Tracking, Building Search, Evidence Search, Area Search, Obedience, and Handler Protection.

            Nitro lives with Officer Greene and his family. He is trained to protect Officer Greene with his life.

            At one point during the event, Officer Greene needed to get something in his car. “Stay right here, Nitro,” he said. As Officer Greene ran off, Nitro remained motionless. He eyes remained fixed on the Exit. Nitro’s concentration never wavered as he lay with his front legs crossed. When Officer Greene bounded back, Nitro made sure Officer Greene got in his seat just fine.

            Nitro has inspired me to sign up Vito for puppy obedience class. I’m not looking for a miracle. I don’t expect Vito to take a bullet for me, but if he came when I called, that would be nice.

What Vito Don't Know

     “Hoo-ah!  Are you listenin' to me, son? I'm givin' ya pearls here.”

     - Lt. Col. Frank Slade

     Scent of a Woman

            I just started to let Vito to watch PG movies so don’t ask me how he knows his favorite actor is Al Pacino.

            When I questioned this, he mouth-grabbed videotapes of the three “Godfathers.” Also between his jaws was a DVD of  “Scent of a Woman.” That’s the Al Pacino film he likes best because Vito’s favorite sense is smell and he likes the tango.

            The DVD was saliva-saturated; it was time to install a puppy-safe lock on the TV cabinet.

            We put away the movies, and I noticed he got quiet. I asked him what was wrong. He indicated that even though Al Pacino was his favorite Hollywood star, he was very upset with Al at the moment.

            Vito was bummed because Al is Dr. Jack Kevorkian in tonight’s HBO movie “You Don’t Know Jack.” Dr. Kevorkian still lives in the Detroit area.

            Now Vito is scared of Al because he thinks Al is going to come over with his Death Machine and try and kill me.

            I explained that Al was just playing a part, that’s he’s not really Jack Kevorkian. I also clarified that the real Dr. Kevorkian didn’t kill you if you wanted to live; he killed you if you wanted to die. I told him that was called euthanasia.

            Vito said he is against euthanasia. He said he is glad that no one tries to put dogs out of their misery if they get old and sick.

            I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was delusional. I wanted to distract him from his worries, so I handed him the remote and told him to turn on cable and watch an animal show.

            A while later, I checked on Vito, who had picked a movie to watch. From the TV, I heard a dog bark, then Fess Parker’s country voice. Vito sat mesmerized in front of the screen. Then I saw the flash of yellow dog and Pa with a shotgun.

            I got to Vito just in time. With one hand I covered his eyes and with the other I flipped down his ears.

            Old Fess shot rabid Old Yeller. When I finally let him look, the beautiful yellow dog was gone. Vito asked what happened to Old Yeller. I told him that the family sent him to a better place – the farm down the road.

Settle

“I'm da boss, I'm da boss, I'm da boss, I'm da boss, I'm da boss ... I'm da boss, I'm da boss, I'm da boss, I'm da boss, I'm da boss.”

- Jake La Motta

 Raging Bull           

               Late Thursday afternoon, I flipped through Stephen King’s mad dog classic “Cujo” while I kept an eye on Vito, as he quietly ripped through the pages of his “Lassie” anthology.

            The rumble of the garage door started, and so ended our peaceful afternoon.

            From around the corner, Nick called, “V-e-e-e-t-o-o-o-o, come out and pla-a-a-ay-y-y!”

            Vito dropped “Lassie” and cocked his head. Nick was home! He sprung like he had swallowed a bottle of diet pills and washed them down with a triple mocha latte.

             Nick-time was wrestle-time.

            He lurched and hopped like the floor was electrified. He panted and howled. That’s how excited Nick got. You should have seen Vito.

            Vito channeled his inner Jake La Motta, stood on his hind legs, and batted Nick with his paws like a professional boxer. They circled each other and ducked punches. By now, Vito’s pupils were dilated. His heart rate increased to the pulse of a Keith Moon drum solo.

             Which was the exact point Nick decided he was done playing with Vito. Nick just cut out, went upstairs to his room, and left me alone with Vito, who by now needed an injection of ketamine to calm down. And since Michael Jackson’s personal veterinarian no longer makes house calls, I no longer have access to that particular sedative, which is used only in animal hospitals. So I had to find another way to calm the crazed animal.

            This, I decided, was the perfect time to practice the “settle” command.

            My vet showed me how to do it: lay the dog on his side, place the bottom of your forearms over the dog’s shoulders and hips, and hold his bottom paws with your hands. He might fuss, but eventually the dog will exhale deeply and relax. Brian and I have done it before, and it’s not fun. Vito fights and scratches to get out of the hold. He also moans unpleasantly.

            Nick is not a fan of “settle.” He says it’s the same as torture. He says next we’ll be water-boarding Vito. As smart as he is, Nick appears to have missed the point that he is a general reason why Vito needs to "settle."

            Still, I couldn’t risk a budding Cujo on my hands. I called for Brian, who pulled Vito off my head and pinned him into the “settle” position. Vito thrashed like his foot was caught in a bear trap. He writhed like an old lady poked him with Vito-voodoo pins.

            “Settle” was not working, but both Brian and I vowed not to give up because we didn’t want Vito to think he could win by outlasting us. If we gave up, all the power in the house would shift towards Vito, which meant that he would control the TV remote. That is the line that Brian and I could not allow him to cross.

            In the middle of Vito’s alternating guttural moans, then ear shattering screams, the home phone rang. Brian and I decided nothing should deter us from our mission to break Vito, so we let it ring through to the answering machine. From the first syllable of the message, I could tell it was Nick. He called on his cell from his room, upstairs. He left a message.

            “I have no idea what is going on down there …” he said in a droll, superior voice over the distant piercing shrieks of Vito, which we could also hear on the recording. “…But for the love of God, please don’t tell me you’re doing the ‘settle’ thing with Vito.” Then Nick hung up.

            I went ballistic. “You think you know everything,” I shook my fist and screamed at the ceiling. “But you know nothing! I would rather do this with a 25-pound puppy than a 55-pound … d-o-o-o-o-g!”

            Somewhere after Nick’s phone call and before Vito hit the 20-minute mark in his “settle” tirade, I must have slipped out of consciousness. When I came to, I heard something beautiful, which meant I heard nothing. A second later, it was Brian's voice that brought me completely back.

            “Good settle,” said Brian, who released Vito and gave him a treat.

            Vito snuggled against Brian, who embraced him back.

            “After all that, I think Vito still likes us,” I said.

            “I think he likes us more,” said Brian.

            I wonder if  “settle” works on 22-year-old humans.

           

           

           

                       

           

           

             

Bugs

            Don Ciccio: “I see you took the name of the town. What was your father's name?”

            Vito Corleone: “Antonio Andolini.”

            Don Ciccio: “You'll have to speak up. I can't hear you”

            Vito Corleone: “My father's name was Antonio Andolini... and this is for you.” Vito stabs him.

            Godfather II

            During his bout of roundworms, I nicknamed Vito “Bugs.”

            One day, Nick meant to call Vito “Buddy,” but he was thinking “Budster.” Out came “Butter.” Now that’s what Nick calls him.

            Beth dubbed him the affectionate “Vitino,” or “Little Vito” in Italian.  Bello!

            To Christina, he’s “Vito the Guido.” The situation here is, she watches too much “Jersey Shore.” 

             Brian just calls him “Baby.”

            Vito’s a good sport, he responds to all his pet names.

            I know how that is. My name has always been mispronounced and misread. 

            Growing up, I tried to become Anne, to cut down on length and Italian-ness. But my mother said, “If I wanted to name you Anne, I would have named you Anne. I named you Annemarie, all one word. Tell people you want to be called Annemarie.”

            (My mother had no sympathy. Her name was Palma. She married my father, Ennio. She told me I should consider myself lucky with the name I got because before I was born my father pushed hard to name me after his mother, Philomena. Fanny, for short.)

            So I’ve always been Annemarie, but not really, since people always got my name wrong. I’ve been called Mary Ann, Jo Ann, Maria, Anna Maria and Annie. One math teacher in tenth grade used to call me Mary Ann Starr, to which I obediently answered.

            And don’t even get me started on my last name, Schiavi, which means “slaves” in Italian.

            Like Vito, I’ve had my share of nicknames, including “Anna Maria Alberghetti” and “That Girl” after the Marlo Thomas character.

            When I got married, it was to Brian Pedersen, not Bryan Peterson.  I thought I was hip, so I hyphenated my last name. I became Annemarie Margaret Schiavi-Pedersen -- a mouthful.

            I’m always asked to spell my name. As I pronounce each letter, the name-taker begins to pale. I can tell she’s thinking, “Will this name never end?” There’s always a comment afterward: “That’s quite a long name you have there.” I always answer the same: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

            And my name takes forever to write, so I’ve taken shortcuts -- maybe too many. When Brian and I refinanced our home, the bank listed about 12 incarnations of my name. The first was my official name, after that, the rest were designated with the outlawlike AKA, or Also Know As.

            Vito has a good attitude about his nicknames. He has indicated that we can call him what we want, as long as we don’t call him late for puppy chow.

Bunchers, Revisited

“Only don't tell me you're innocent. Because it insults my intelligence and makes me very angry.”

-Michael, speaking to Carlo

The Godfather

           

       

    

            In the blog before last, I admitted I wasn’t sure what a buncher was, only that the Minnesota Animal Rescue said they snatched dogs. And that they scared Vito and I. That’s it. For all I knew, bunchers picked bananas for orangutans.

            An astute reader commented and explained that bunchers steal “bunches” of dogs and cats. Then, they sell them as a “bunch” to laboratories and dog fighting groups.

            “So sad,” she wrote.

            It’s horrible. But there’s hope. Upon a second read of the Minnesota Dog Rescue website, it appears bunchers are the most incompetent and stupid “bunch” of criminals ever.

            In other words, The Godfather, Don Vito Corleone, does not exactly run this crew. Even Fredo, the son with ricotta cheese for a spine, could pull off a heist better than these Bozos.

            The website detailed three dog-snatching attempts by bunchers. As you will see, all failed:

            *A man saw a buncher run up to his front porch and steal his dachshund. Luckily, the man lived by a four-way stop. He ran into the street in front of the buncher’s car, which was halted at the Stop sign. “What are you doing with my dog?” the owner screamed. The buncher panicked, threw the dachshund out the car window, and blasted away.

            While the buncher apparently thought nothing of stealing a beloved pet to toss into a dogfight, he respected traffic laws enough that in the middle of a crime, he came to complete standstill at a Stop sign.

            *A woman said that she noticed two men in a blue truck with a loud muffler drive slowly past her front yard, on and off, for three weeks. Finally, one guy, a buncher, got out and called her dogs. “Come here puppy … Want this? … Come here,” he called. Luckily, the dogs’ owner had been standing on her front porch the whole time and rushed outside. The guy jumped back in the truck and the pair zoomed off.

            Let me get this straight. Bunchers, with a muffler backfiring like a Russian machine gun, staked out a house for three whole weeks. They then waited for the precise moment that the lady of the house stood at her front door, looking them straight in the eye, to finally kidnap her dogs. Brilliant.

            *And finally, one morning, while a man was in his garage, his dog Mason strolled by -- free. Mason wasn’t in the fenced area where the owner had left him the night before. Upon investigation, it was discovered that a buncher had squatted by the fence ‘til the wee small hours. He had used wire cutters to snip the fence just enough to catch the dog and pull him out. The buncher was gone, but the dog wasn’t.

            In the ultimate poker game of Mason's life, he stood safely within the confines of his fence, staring down the buncher, without blinking. After the buncher could take no more of the doggie stare-down, he fled the scene. When the coast was clear, the pup – who had completely outsmarted the buncher -- slipped through the fence for a night on the town.

            So now I know what a buncher is. I can even write the definition:

            Buncher (bunch *er) n

            1. A member of a criminal organization that is not the mafia.

Six Times

(In Italian) “Do me this favor. I won't forget it. Ask your friends in the neighborhood about me.”

- Vito Corleone

Godfather II

            It rained, and I silently cursed Vito as he sniffed for the perfect spot to perform his FIFTH poop of the day. Somewhere before the clock strikes 12, there will be one more. Seriously, SIX times a day? That’s a bit high maintenance -- even for Vito.

            I asked the vet about this excessiveness, and he said that he just saw a boxer pup that goes eight times a day. All within the normal range, he said. You’ve got to be kidding, I said, but the vet ignored me.

            I guess I shouldn’t complain about six times. A typical dairy cow produces 148 pounds of manure per day. This has caused a big mess for a farmer in Indiana who owns 1,650 cows. He collects their manure in a lagoon, 21 million gallons of it. Bubbles – some 200 feet tall – have formed atop the brown, slurry pool. These bubbles are filled with gas, and they’re so big that you can actually see them in satellite photos.

            Anyway, the plastic liner under the lagoon has detached from the ground, and the farmer has to pop the poop bubbles before the manure pool overflows and causes a big stink. He plans to paddleboat across the lagoon and stick the suckers with a Swiss Army knife.

            But his neighbors are having a fit. They are worried that puncturing the bubbles could cause an explosion of manure and toxic gasses. Heck, I live in Michigan, and I just bought myself a gas mask in anticipation of the detonation.

             After I found out about the farmer and his angry neighbors, I began to worry about the people who live next door. We do pick up after Vito, but we’re not exactly obsessive-compulsive.

            I got paranoid about our yard filling with puppy methane gas bubbles. I checked the front and back, and thankfully we were clear. Then I asked our neighbor Richard if Vito’s multiple daily messes bothered him. Richard likes dogs and has had a ton of them. I figured he would tell me the truth if Vito’s routine were offensive.

            Richard just shrugged and said he didn’t smell anything. Then I drew on his vast experience with dogs, and I asked him if he had any answers as to why Vito went so much.

            He contemplated the question, and answered, quite philosophically.

            Well,” said Richard, “he just likes doing it.”

            Thank God he’s not a dairy cow.

Bunchers

 “You touch my sister again, I'll kill you.”

- Sonny to Carlo Rizzi

The Godfather

            A concerned friend forwarded me an email that originated from the Minnesota Dog Rescue about a nefarious dog-snatching ring.

            It reported that a girl from Grand Rapids had her English bulldog puppy ripped from her arms by a man in a white-panel truck.

            These “bunchers” from Virginia troll the Midwest for dogs, the email said. They steal pups from fenced yards, tie-outs, and even front porches.

             “God knows how many bunchers are out there, and how many vehicles are being used,” said the email.

            I have always feared kidnappers. When my children were young, I pictured many disturbing scenarios. In one particularly horrifying landscape, a maniac perched in every tree and waited for the opportunity to drop on my kid and bag her.

            In another nightmare, we were at Cedar Point, where I believed every other person was armed with hair dye. While I was at the concession stand, the would-be kidnapper yanked my kid into a restroom and doused him with Lady Clairol in order to change his hair color and render him unidentifiable. As the maniac pulled him away from the amusement park, my child was silent for the first time in his life -- no arguing, complaining, or whining. Even when he was dragged away from the Demon Drop and the Dippin’ Dots, my kid didn’t make a sound. When I finally looked up from my Elephant Ear, my child had quietly vanished.

            Now this thing with the bunchers was all I had to hear. I’m worried about Vito.

            I used the scary email as an opportunity to have a talk with him on how to keep from being the victim of all kinds of abuse.

            “If a human touches you in an area that makes you uncomfortable,” I said, “You have the right to bite him.” He seemed receptive, so I took advantage of the teachable moment to discuss safe sex and abstinence.

            After that, we both felt he was better equipped to handle bunchers, and whatever other threats awaited him in the outside world.

            During our last visit to the vet, I could tell Vito had listened during our talk. When the vet said that he was going to administer a syringe of the Bordetella vaccine up the nose, Vito went into full metal jacket. After our sex talk, he thought “Bordetella” was a doggie STD. There was no way he was going to accept that being shoved up his snout without a fight.

            As the vet squirted the Bordetella into his nostril, Vito nipped him. The vet told me we needed to work on Vito’s “mouthiness.”

            I understood where the vet was coming from, but I also knew that Vito defended himself in the only way he knew how.

             Next talk, Vito and I will discuss the difference between a doctor’s good touch and a buncher’s bad one. I admit the talk would be easier if I had ever heard the word buncher before the Minnesota Dog Rescue email. I still don’t know exactly what they are. Here I’ll be talking to Vito about their touch, and for all I know, bunchers might be aliens without hands.

Double Vito

“It never ends.”
- Kay Corleone

Godfather III

            Vito went from eight to 16 pounds in one month -- all on three cups of dry dog food a day. He expanded like the Botox in Joan Rivers’ lips, and he never even ate an ice cream cone, let alone an extra bite of kibble.

            If zippy, young Vito’s metabolism is satisfied with the same amount of food while he doubles in size, it can only make me wonder what the implications are for humans  -- namely, middle-aged women of Sicilian descent who sit around and write a blog.

            New research has emerged that says a mature woman needs an hour of exercise a day just to maintain a normal weight. That means if she doesn’t work out and eats the same amount, she will grow out of her size-12 dress and into a parachute, with arm and head holes cut out, in no time. To actually lose weight, the report implies that she’d have to swim the English Channel daily.

            Vito does seem hungrier, and I fear he will soon push me into giving him four cups of food. At that rate, he will be the first canine to earn a spot on “The Biggest Loser.”

            I asked Vito’s veterinarian about distance running for health. For example, should I sign up for the Iditarod? Racing 1,049 miles in a span of nine days would surely keep the weight off, wouldn’t it?

            The vet answered that the Iditarod is an extreme and dangerous race. He said I should never even consider entering.

            He also said that I should continue to feed Vito just as I had been. He said young dogs, and Huskies in particular, have great metabolisms and adjust wonderfully to their caloric intake.

            At the end of our appointment, the vet went back to my original query about the great Alaskan race. He stressed that I should take Vito on some good walks – no Iditarod -- and if I did that, Vito’s weight would stay on target.

            But he had misunderstood my question. I wasn’t referring to Vito. Apparently veterinarians ignore new research regarding middle-aged women and their ever-growing exercise requirements. I was considering the Iditarod for me.

           

Princess Fru-fru

“You talk about vengeance. Is vengeance going to bring your son back to you? Or my boy to me?”

- Don Corleone

The Godfather

            Vito and I were minding our own business on a walk when, from the north flank,  a black-and white-puff charged us. We froze. Princess Fru-fru pounced on Vito and knocked him over. She pinned him and yapped in his face. Her owner, a fourth-grader named Mark, chased down his dog and yanked her off Vito.

            “Sorry,” he said with a smirk. “I can’t believe Princess Fru-fru would go after a Husky and win.”

            “He’s only a puppy,” I said.

            “Princess Fru-fru is only a year old,” he said. Then, he pointed at Vito, “Plus, he’s already bigger than her.”

             Mark seemed to imply that Vito was a wimp, and that Princess Fru-fru had laid the puppy smack down on him.

            “You should keep her on a leash,” was my only retort.

            I admit that Princess Fru-fru’s ambush of Vito irritated me. On our next walk, I led Vito toward Princess Fru-fru’s house to see how he would react. Vito braked and pulled backward on the leash. I called him a yellow-bellied coward. I dragged him, whimpering and whining, past her house.

            I was so humiliated for Vito that I waited a whole week before we went by Princess Fru-fru’s. I didn’t realize then that waiting a while was a good idea. It appears that a puppy matures quite a bit in one week. It’s as if your child liked Yoo-hoo chocolate milk one day and Jack Daniels on the rocks the next.

            I got Vito all leashed up and outside, and who do we run into but Mark and Princess Fru-fru, on her pink and gold leash.

            I attempted to switch our direction, away from Princess Fru-fru, so as to avoid another Vito-slapdown. But, Vito had other ideas. He took off like he was turbo charged toward Princess Fru-fru. Princess Fru-fru yanked Mark toward Vito.

            Vito circled her like a matador. He flipped her over and held her prone. Strong and virile in his mastery of her, he reminded me of Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. Mark tried to pull Princess Fru-fru, and I tried to tug Vito, but their leashes were tangled.

            As I struggled to unweave the leashes, Vito seized the moment and took his revenge.

             He whizzed on Princess Fru-fru.

            “He peed on her!” Mark screamed. “He peed on Princess Fru-fru!”

            I tried to excuse Vito’s filthy behavior, but I was beginning to tire of Mark and Princess Fru-fru. “He’s not potty trained,” I said.

            “Either is Princess Fru-fru!” screamed Mark, “but she doesn’t do that!”

            It appears that Princess Fru-fru has been dethroned.

            

Psycho

“Dad?” On the steps of the Opera House, Mary Corleone’s last word to Michael.

- Godfather III

A guy I worked with named Jeff, who had attended West Point, told me to steer clear of a particular reporter in the office. He diagnosed her with gum disease. He believed one person with gum disease could contaminate an entire office. He said that if we got too close, the bacteria from her mouth would jump into ours. If we weren’t careful, the whole city of Wyandotte, where we worked, could go down to gingivitis within months.

 I said I could see this happening if I kissed her, but was it necessary to avoid her like the plague. Yes, he said, it was necessary.

            It’s the same with fear. Worry Germs can creep from one individual to another. If you act like you are scared of birds, your fear may fly into your child’s brain. He may develop an irrational fear of, say, the rooster Foghorn Leghorn.

            It’s the same with me and Vito, and even Sergei, our dog before him.

My fear is that some day I will suffer a spurt of vertigo and tip headfirst down the basement stairs. Brian will come home from work and find me unconscious at the bottom.

There is an indefinable, creepy quality to these steps. It’s lighted; still, the staircase seems haunted.

Both dogs have picked up on my fear.

 Vito follows me all over the house, but he balks every time I pass the basement stairs.  Sergei did the same thing. It’s as if they think Alfred Hitchcock’s hand will reach up and pull them into the Bates Motel.

This week, something happened that defied odds. Just after his walk outside, Vito and I entered the laundry room. He didn’t want to come in yet, but I did, so I dragged him inside behind me. After I passed the basement steps, I noticed an odd pull on the leash. I turned, and there was no Vito. He had slipped down the stairs! His paws dug into the carpet as he held on for dear life. I fell to my knees and pulled him up to safety.

This brings me to something else that scares Vito. Just prior to falling down the steps, while we were on our walk, the storm sewer in the street made a big sucking noise. Vito jumped away from it. He looked back a couple times as we continued to walk. It’s as if he thought a monster dwelled inside, and it wanted to swallow him whole.

Vito was ridiculous to think that a monster hid in the sewer. It actually waited behind the scenes until we went on our walk, and then it hid on our basement steps. It was bald, directed films, and had a droll English accent -- and its gums were swollen and bloody.

The monster waited patiently for the darling puppy to pass …  and then it grabbed him!