Bon Voyage!

Nick holds Vito safely in his arms

Nick is flying into NYC in a couple of hours. Before him are a week of interviews taking place in the very best city on the Earth. He's preparing for his future.
He's a young man full of life.

Ten years ago, a handful of madmen -- their names are immaterial, I barely remember them anyway-- rammed planes into buildings and stole the futures of more than 3,000 innocent souls.

Godspeed, my boy, to you and your fellow passengers aboard Flight 2248 headed to LaGuardia.

Everyone on that airplane, every one in that city, is our future.
No madmen today taking that away.

Playoff Nameoff

Pavel Datsyuk

“He was with the Interior Ministry. Guy's like a Russian green beret. He cannot come back and tell this story. You understand?”

- Tony Soprano, “Pine Barrens”

It seems Vito has skated onto the Pavel Datsyuk Zamboniwagon.

I am the first to admit that the Detroit Red Wings Russian superstar has been slicker and more slippery than the ice he skates on.

But Vito is rubbing in the fact that he and Pavel originally hail from the same part of the world, and the rest of us in the Pedersen household don’t.

He is turning against Sicily and embracing the “Siberian” part of his huskiness, demanding that we change his name during the NHL playoffs. Vito wants to go with something more “Russian.”

I’ve had three teenagers. When they get an idea in their heads, you are better off letting them go with it, then its success or failure rests solely on them. It also helps, if the idea is relatively benign, to try and be supportive.

So I suggested a few names, those with Russian roots, that we actually called some of our former pets.

“What about Misha?” I asked, remembering the dog with the big brown eyes.

Vito jabbed his paw into his mouth like he was going to throw up.

“How about Sergei, as in Sergei Federov?" I asked. "He was a great Red Wing, like Datsyuk.”

He blinked a couple of times, which I interpreted as we were getting close, but not quite there.

“Let me think,” I said. “There was once this great Red Wings Defenseman named Vladimir Konstantinov. He was strong and powerful. And since Vito and Vladdy both start with the same letter, we won’t even have to change your monogramed towels.”

Vito barked loud and proud.

“That was easy,” I said. “Let’s toast your new playoff name.”

I grabbed a couple of glasses and poured us some orange juice.

"To Vladdy," I said, hoisting my glass, but Vito's remained untouched.

“What’s wrong now?" I asked.

With his nose, he pointed to a bottle of Smirnoff.

Nostrovia.

Vladimir Konstantinov

Hoops

Vito picks the Huskies. Go figure.

Do you believe in miracles?

I wish St. Patrick could come back to Earth for one day. Surely we'd find him in Japan, leading his flock away from radiation, into a field of soft shamrocks.

Vito Gras!

Vito went a little nutty and spilled a glass of wine on himself during his annual Mardi Gras party (for the second year in a row,  he was his only guest).  We called for an intervention.  He promised to lay off the parties and stick to water.
Photo by Brian Pedersen.

Epic

Vito waits sadly

"I am on a drug. It's called Charlie Sheen. It's not available. If you try it once, you will die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body."

- Charlie Sheen

Here’s what my day is like: revise my novel, feed myself, revise my novel, relieve myself, revise my novel, feed my family, revise my novel, go to sleep.

There’s no energy left for Vito, or the two porn gods who live with my family.

Vito looks at me pleadingly (The brown eyes pleads. I never know what’s going on with that half colorless one). He is beginning to remind me of that thin, sad dog in the commercial for the antidepressant Abilify, waiting by the door for his owner to finally take him on a walk.

But I am not allowing myself go anywhere until I’m done revising my novel. I’ve chained myself to my dictionary and thesaurus, a prisoner of grammar.

Revising a novel is nothing like actually creating one

             The act of inventing a book is like a narcotic. When the words pour forth onto the paper, I’m a bitchin’ rock star. Tiger blood courses through my veins!  After 1,000 words each day, I’m done. Vito and I slap on our alien brains and we become a pair of high priest assassin warlocks to be reckoned with.

For me, revising a novel is the opposite of writing it. It’s like Charlie Sheen without the “Adonis DNA.” Studying every tense and analyzing every analogy is all work. I barely have the energy left to help Vito brush his teeth, and this is not okay with him.

When I told him that I’m doing this for us, so that we’d be winners, he opened his mouth and burped, “D-u-u-uh.” When I asked him if he thought I should spell “d-u-u-uh” with two “u’s” or three, he got mad. He grabbed my Chicago Manual of Style and buried it somewhere. I still haven’t found it.

He is showing signs of depression from my neglect. If I don’t snap this novel into shape soon Vito is going to need a prescription for Abilify.

 Or maybe a transfusion of gnarly tiger blood.

That would be epic, man.

Merry Go Vito

We have snow one day, temps in the 50s the next, and then more snow. It’s enough to make us people feel like we’re on a carousel. For Vito, all the snow is as fun as a ride in the amusement park.  Photo by Brian Pedersen.

Hearts and Stalkers

“Danielle is at the house tonight. Stalker! Stage-five clinger alert!”

- Vinny

Jersey Shore

No Valentine’s Day is complete without a tale about love gone mad.

Vito has turned into a stalker.

He used to follow me around the house like any regular puppy dog. But I always knew he had an agenda.

I feed him, and I prepare most of the meals in our house, so I represent the source of all food. I thought he liked me basically because I was his meal ticket. When he stands between my legs when I’m at the counter preparing a meal, I thought he was waiting for an errant crumb of ground beef to roll off and into his mouth.

Now I’m not so sure.

Lately, his interest in me is becoming weird. He tries to follow me into the bathroom. I push him out, but he waits outside the door. He won’t leave. I think he’s standing guard to make sure I don’t slip out the window to escape his “love.”

Today, the day before Valentine’s Day, he went too far. As I headed in to take a shower, I noticed the shower door was ajar. As I slid it open to turn on the hot water, my heart jumped into my throat.

Vito was sitting in the shower stall. I didn’t even know he was in the bathroom. And only God knows how long he’d been in there … waiting for me.

I ordered him out and locked the door behind me, but I was anxious the whole time in there.

He’s beginning to remind me of another famous shower stalker …Vito is even starting to look like Norman Bates. 

Norman Bates

Game Day

Max

Koda

“What are you asking (Tony) for? He never had what it took to be a varsity athlete.”

- Uncle Junior

The Sopranos

Vito and I have waited for this day all year. The big game!

         All diets are off today. For us, it’s all about the tailgate -- beer and pig ears.

We also like to gamble, so we carefully picked our squares for the betting pool. Vito made his mark with his snout.  

We’ve pulled our favorite jerseys out of the back of the closet. Vito likes wearing Pittsburgh Steelers Quarterback Ben Roethlisberger’s jersey because they’re both dogs.

Come game time, we wrestle for our favorite spot on the couch. Vito always wins. We warm up the big screen. Our stomachs are in knots as we await the 3 p.m. kickoff.

Puppy Bowl VII!

The best football game of the year!

Animal Planet puts on a heck of a show. Terriers tackling setters, chickens leading cheers, and kittens grinding during the half-time show, it’s the greatest sporting production ever.

And the commercials are awesome, like the one where a driving dog does doughnuts in a Subaru.

         This year, Vito’s favorite player is Koda, a 16-week-old Siberian Husky. During his player interview, Koda indicated that his favorite holiday is Columbus Day. Vito thought that was quirky, but I told him that finely tuned athletes are somewhat high strung.        

This year, my guy is Max, a 10-week-old lab-spaniel mix that likes show tunes.

At the end of the game, when the score is cast in the record books and the trophy awarded, Vito and I immediately begin to look forward to next year’s game.

I always hope to win a major credit card contest and get to the Puppy Bowl one day. Maybe next year will be the year.

If I were lucky enough to go, I’d try to get a big, fat, wet kiss on the cheek from one of the quarterbacks. Maybe some fox like a poodle named Tom Brady.

A Good Day To Be A Husky

Photo by Brian Pedersen

The Great Blizzard of 2011 has been the best day of Vito's life!

Specstacular

 

“The world needs heroes and it's better they be harmless men like me than villains like Hitler.”

- Albert Einstein

         In case you haven’t read, WWII historians recently unearthed a 1940s photo of this cool dog, named Jackie, that gave Hitler the canine version of the finger.

         The dog’s owners, anti-Nazi Finns Tor and Josefine Borg, razzed der Fuhrer in their own way when they referred to their mutt Jackie as “Hitler” because of the way the pup raised his paw high in the air, imitating the German salute, “Heil ...”

         Supposedly, in the final days of Hitler’s reign, with the world tumbling around him, it was the actions of the Tors and their dog that infuriated the maniac’s inner circle. It’s been reported that during Hitler’s final days, the Foreign Office, the Economy Ministry, and even his chancellors meticulously monitored Jackie’s activities.

         I don’t blame the Nazis for keeping an eye on the pooch. A dog wearing spectacles like Jackie had to be a genius, capable of world domination.

         The dog clearly played a big part in bringing down the Third Reich.

         Notice, Jackie didn’t smoke cigars like Winston Churchill or strut like General Patton (though his physical resemblance to Harry Truman was remarkable). He picked Hitler to mimic.

          Jackie knew exactly what he was doing.

         While the Nazi commanders became unhinged about Jackie belittling Hitler, Germany burned. Hitler’s advisers obviously had Jackie on their minds when they sent 4.5 million troops to invade the Russia, a death trap that ultimately ended the war.

         I don’t want to brag, but I think Vito and Jackie may share some DNA.

          I already mentioned in a previous blog that I believed Vito was partially blind in his bi-colored eye. So we got him a set of specs like Jackie’s.

         Now he’s picked up the Jackie’s half-wave/half salute, ridiculing Hitler, just like Jackie.

         Just look at that photo below -- it’s Jackie in the flesh and fur.

         Jackie is surely in doggie heaven, and he can now rest assured that his world-saving, tyrant-mocking legacy will carry on in the name of Vito.

         Now maybe he can finally enjoy a victory cigar with Winston Churchill.

          

        

         

Sign of the Times

         “It's 19 minutes after the hour, and now it's time for our daily feature: The Astrological Hour. A quick reminder - these reports are not intended to foster belief in astrology, but merely to support people who cannot take responsibility for their own lives.”


         - Newscaster Janice Kent, The Kentucky Fried Movie 

         Vito never seemed like a Capricorn, he’s too impractical.

         It seems my hunch was correct. We discovered this week that his horoscope sign shifted after astrologers changed the birth dates, based on the Earth’s current position to the stars. 

         A change of such gargantuan enormity doesn’t come easy. The Internet, Facebook, and Twitter were on the verge of collapse, what with all the back-and-forth. Not to worry. Astrologers predicted such an occurrence and told the computer people to be ready.

         I heard the change is really affecting Wall Street, a place where people base their decisions on the alignment of the stars.

         Now before you go and laser off your Virgo tattoo and replace it with a Leo, remember this change only applies to those born in the year 2009 and beyond

          Vito was born Jan. 1, 2010, so he switched from being a Capricorn to a Sagittarian, which makes sense.

         Capricorns are symbolized by the goat, which Vito just considers something okay to eat, a third-rate protein at best. Capricorns are the epitome of professionalism and traditional values. Vito likes to slack on the couch watching Jersey Shore.

         Sagittarius is more like it.

         Sagittarius is depicted as the centaur, a half-man, half-beast creature, just like Vito. The centaur is holding a bow and arrow to hunt. Vito loves to chase squirrels, and on a good day, disembowel a rabbit with his own teeth.

         So you see, the change in horoscope signs has righted the world.

         I’m just glad he’s not the new one, an ophiucus, which is a serpent holder.

         We don’t need Vito playing a flute and hypnotizing a basket of snakes.

         Not in this astrological house.

Pure Evil

Norman Bates: “She just goes a little mad sometimes. We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?”

Marion Crane: “Yes. Sometimes just one time can be enough.”

- Psycho

            Since he came to us last February, Vito has exhibited a “puppy love” crush on Beth, his human sister, if you will.

            His eyes alight with twinkles when they’re together. During this past Christmas break, he never left her alone, not to eat, or sleep, or take care of her personal hygiene. Everywhere Beth went, a panting, drooling Vito followed.

            We all thought it was cute, until it took a dark twist.

            That was the day her real boyfriend, a human named Chase, came to visit for a couple of days.

            With Chase in the house, Beth couldn’t give Vito the affection to which he had become accustomed.

            So Vito, like any self-respecting psycho, began to engage in depraved behaviors to get Beth’s attention.

            He’d nip at the pants of the young man as he passed, or he’d refuse to make room on the couch where Chase and Beth wanted to sit. Actions that seemed insignificant at the time, but in retrospect were gateway behaviors for the truly weird stuff to come.

            That night, as the couple went out on a date, I noticed mysterious, small spots on the carpet. A few minutes later, I saw Vito hunched over. He regurgitated a small amount of stomach content at the foot of the couch where Chase had been sitting. This discharge looked like the spots on the carpet.

            “Vito,” I accused. “Have you been pretending to be sick so Beth will notice you?”

            He looked at me, beaming with lunacy.

            “You’re unbelievable,” I said, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him outside to his pen.

            “You stay out here in solitary confinement and think about your behavior,” I lectured. “By tomorrow morning, you better be over this bizarre, inter-species love triangle that you’ve concocted in your own small, bitter mind.”

            He winked at me, much the way I imagine Jack-the-Ripper did before he cut the throats of his innocent victims.

            The night spent in the cooler didn’t change his outlook. In fact, it made matters worse.

            He acted up all day, stealing Beth’s socks and chewing on her new coat.

            But it was during dinner that he pulled the real stinker.

            I had given him a Busy Bone to occupy himself while we ate, and he seemed content.

            As I was cleaning up after dinner, I walked by the back door and happened to glance at Chase’s shoes.

            It seems that while I thought he was happy with his Busy Bone, Vito was busily doing something else. He had removed a blob of wet Kleenex from the toilet bowl and plopped the wad on Chase’s shoes.

            “Bad boy,” I hissed. “Bad Vito.”

            To which Vito opened his mouth in a wide freakazoid smile.

            I quickly cleaned up the mess, finishing in the nick of time.

             Chase rounded the corner. I stood erect in front of his shoes, shoving the wad of wet paper in the pocket of my hoodie, plastering an innocent-looking smile on my face.

            “Everything was really great," said Chase. "Thank you.” I cast my eyes down toward Vito, who was in the process of raising his leg, getting ready to further assault Chase’s shoes.

            I swatted Vito’s leg, all the while smiling at Chase.

            “You’re welcome,” I said sweetly, through gritted teeth.

            “And Vito is a great dog,” Chase said, bending down, patting the dog’s head.

            Vito was all smiles as he looked up at Chase.

            The dog is evil, I tell you, pure evil.

           

Not Christina’s Birthday

“And surely you’ll buy your pint cup, and surely I’ll buy mine.

And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.”

-Auld Lang Syne

            Today is Beth and Nick’s 23^rd birthday. And believe it or not, Vito turns one today as well.

            Seriously, what were the odds of Vito sharing a birthday with the twins?

            Not low enough, according to Christina, the only non-parent member of the household without a New Year’s Day birthday.

            When she was little, she was always miffed with the twins' Jan. 1 birthday. Think of it, two out of the three kids, older than you, get to open a whole new round of gifts on the first day of the year.

            Just when she seemed to be getting over it, we learned Vito was a New Year’s puppy.

            “Oh great,” she mumbled upon seeing the birth date on his registration papers. “We’ve gone from twins to triplets.”

            As the red-letter day approached, I could see she was upset. So I poured her a glass of Diet Coke and me a double vodka -- hard alcohol to deal with the inexplicable, mother-guilt brought on by a coincidence of birth, one that could only upset a high-schooler with a house in the suburbs, a car, and a bank account.

            Poor Christina -- she wasn’t born on the same day as the twins and Vito.

            Why, God, why?

            The booze loosened me up enough to address the elephant in the room.

            “Think,” I said, gulping the double. “You get your own special day, and the twins have to share theirs with a dog.”

            “I want to share my birthday with the dog,” she pouted.

            “That may be the strangest sentence ever uttered,” I said.

            “I know,” she said. “It’s just that there’s the three of them, and then there’s me.”

            “Well then,” I said philosophically, feeling the alcohol begin to soak my brain. “Consider it this way. Your father and I only have so much money. Having two kids with birthdays exactly one week after Christmas leaves us broke. We always have to cut back on what we might like to give the twins. Now, add in one more gift for the dog, and …”

             “… the twins get even less,” she said, her eyes beaming with enlightenment and glee.

            “Exactly,” I slurred.

            “Happy New Year,” she said. “To me!”