Coach Babcock

“Tony never had the makings of a varsity athlete.”

- Junior Soprano

The Sopranos

            Between Vito and the blog, I don’t get out much. So I felt particularly lucky to spot Red Wings Head Coach Mike Babcock at Christina’s lacrosse game. No, Coach Babcock wasn’t making the transition from professional hockey to women’s high school lacrosse; like me, he was in Farmington Hills to watch his daughter play. Fortuitously, I had my new video camera.

            Bloggers sneak photos of celebs all the time. The hope is that the celeb will misbehave. If I was lucky, I could record Coach Babcock do something awful, like throw his Starbucks at the 80-year-old-lacrosse referee.

             That’s how millionaire celebrity blogger Perez Hilton – who I used to think was Paris Hilton trying to spell her name like a rapper – got his start.

            Nonchalantly, I extended the camera outward so it looked like I recorded Christina as she cut around the lacrosse field. But in fact, I angled the camera toward Coach Babcock, who talked, “Yada, yada, Lidstrom …” on his phone.

            It was very bright outside, and as I tried to find him in the lens, the crowd erupted. Christina scored. But I missed the whole thing because my camera was aimed at Coach Babcock, who I have not yet photographed because I can’t see him in the lens.

            My friend Pat walked up with a quizzical look. No wonder. Unconsciously, I had turned away from the lacrosse field with the camera thrust outward in front of me almost in the face of Coach Babcock.

            I whispered to Pat that Coach Babcock was behind her. By now he was really revved, talking a mile a minute, so much so that Pat couldn’t hear what I whispered. So I said it louder -- at the exact moment Coach Babcock stopped talking. He looked me dead in the eye.

            My daughter Beth appeared. She had witnessed the whole incident.

            “Way to be discreet, mom,” she whispered in my ear.

            Now, though I practically faced him, I had to pretend that I was interested in something else on the horizon. At the perfect moment an amazingly beautiful Golden Retriever, the Farrah Fawcett of dogs, appeared. I would aim my camera at this dog, as if all along that was what I was really interested in photographing.

            The lady with the gorgeous Golden set up her chair right next to Coach Babcock. He and the lady smiled at each other. She didn’t appear to care who he was, so I guessed the lady was his wife.

            The Golden performed like Lassie. It rolled in the grass, gave the lady kisses, and shook its feathered blonde fur in slow motion. This Golden was pure Hollywood, the stuff of a video blogger’s dreams. Only now I didn’t have the nerve to take a video of the dog because it might be Coach Babcock’s. Already he was suspicious of me, and I wasn’t going to press my luck with an Olympic-gold hockey coach.

            The lacrosse game wasn’t quite over when Coach Babcock left, without saying goodbye to the woman with the dog. By now I was pretty sure Coach Babcock and this lady weren’t married. So, not only did I not get a video of Coach Babcock, I didn’t get one of the blond, bombshell of a dog. Also, I missed Christina’s goal.

            On the way to the car, I verbally flogged myself in front of Christina and Beth. What the heck kind of blogger was I? I would never be Perez Hilton. Heck, I would never even be Paris Hilton.

            “Mom …” Beth caught my hand just before I threw my new camera into the pussy willows … “I’ve got a picture of you and Mike Babcock.”

            There we were caught on Beth’s I-Phone.

             Apparently the Perez-Hilton-gene skips a generation.

            

            

Nick & Vito’s Russian Dance

“Russians? They’re not all bad.”
- Christopher Moltisanti
The Sopranos (Pine Barrens)

Nick thinks that Vito has become too assimilated into our family’s Italian heritage.
All this Sicilian-Godfather stuff only takes him further away from Siberia, the land of his ancestors.
For our Husky to develop into the well-rounded, proud dog that we all hope he becomes, Nick said we needed to get him back to his roots.
So the boys have taken up Traditional Russian Dancing.
Click the following video to enjoy the Eastern European dance stylings of Nick and Vito Pedersen.
Nostrovia!

Vito's Interview

“Hope comes in many forms.”

- Dr. Jennifer Melfi

The Sopranos


     Kathy called and asked if I could bring Vito to her office. She wanted to interview him at 1 p.m. that day.

            At first, I thought she misspoke. Kathy is an inventory coordinator for Farmington Public Schools and was probably searching for a student intern. She accidentally said “Vito” when she meant to say “Christina,” my 11th grade daughter, who is an actual human.

            “I mean Vito,” she said. “I’m having different types of dog breeds brought by for us to sort of interview, and see what’d we like.”

            “Like for what?”

            “A mascot,” she said. “I think we need to get a dog for the IT Department. There are so many school closings and layoffs, and dogs are great stress relievers.”

            “Does your boss know about this?”

            “No.”

            “This is your idea?”

            “Yes.”

            “How many dogs,” I asked, “have you interviewed?”

            “Vito’s the first.”

            Thank God. It wasn’t too late to stop my dear friend from this heresy of which she spoke.

            Offices work best when they persecute and demoralize. It’s the American Way. With her touchy-feely-bring-a-doggie-to-work idea, I feared she would be branded a “ reformer,” and nothing good could come of that.

            And she just admitted she was hot in the middle of the layoff zone! Since I was the only one thinking straight, I had to save my dear Kathy from shooting herself in the foot.

            “Vito acts up a lot.” I lied. “He gets sick on car rides and he’ll probably throw up in your office. That would be awful and you’d get in trouble so we better not come in for … the interview.”

            “We have stuff to clean up vomit,” she said. “We are a school district, remember?”

            She said she’d see me at one and hung up.

            I gave Vito a bath and tied on a new bandana for his interview. On the ride to Kathy’s office, I told him to refrain from urinating on anyone’s shoes because first impressions were important.

            Kathy met us at the door of the Information Technology Dept. She led Vito behind her desk and hoisted him on her lap. He sat respectfully and made eye contact with all who entered. She introduced him to her boss Michael and co-workers Steve, Tiff, and Larry. The staff petted and played with him. Everyone in Vito’s vicinity laughed and smiled.

            When he sniffed the carpet, I got worried about what was sure to follow, so I cut short Vito’s interview. Kathy walked us out to our car.

            “So are you guys really going to get a dog for the office?” I asked as we waited for Vito to finish his business.

            “No, but I wish we could,” she said. “With all the uncertainty over school funding and the layoffs, it’s been tough for people around here. I thought a puppy visit would be a fun break in the day. Thanks for bringing him.”

            “I’m glad we came.”

            As we drove home, I told Vito that I was proud of him. Even though he didn’t get the job, the interview went very well.

           

The Dog-mother

Don Corleone: “Do I have your loyalty?"

Clemenza: “Yes, always Godfather.”

The Godfather

            It’s Mother’s Day, and there’s one kind of mom that gets practically no credit for her goodness. This woman is the adoptive mother of a dog -- the dog-mother, if you will. A century ago, an attorney named George Graham Vest delivered his famous speech “Tribute to the Dog.” But he never spoke an ode to the dog-mother. I shall attempt to right this.

TRIBUTE TO THE DOG-MOTHER

            To the dogs of the world:

            The puppies you bore in the middle of the night with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those with whom you share an occasional pig ear may never offer one in return. The bones you have accumulated, may be taken from you. Your reputation may be tainted after you fail to catch that ever-elusive rabbit. The puppy you dig holes with may turn against you and become your sworn enemy. The dog that may be the first to salute you when success is upon you may be the first to shun you when failure settles its loathsome cloud upon you head.

            The one pillar of a friend that any dog may hope for in this unkind world, the one that never deserts you, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is your dog-mother. A dog-mother stands by you -- her pup -- in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. She will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds howl and the snow drives fiercely, only so that she may comfort her pup in his trembling hour of need. When all other friends desert by dashing to ball games or the mall, places where no normal dog can go, she remains. When riches take wings and the family can no longer afford Milk Bones, she is a constant in sneaking you her last bite of roast beef or final nibble of cookie.

            And when the last scene comes, and death takes you in its embrace and your body is laid away in the cold ground, she will cry longer and harder than the most sensitive of men or the most heartbroken of children. She is always faithful and true, even in your death.   

            Mix up the letters of "the dog-mother" and what do you get? The Godmother.

            Capiche?

Baby Boomers and Their Pooches: Snapshots

Abby and Dan

Even though Dan Spurling, 54, of Wayne, has a couple dogs of his own, when his daughter’s house flooded and she needed a place to stay, her Pit Bull Abby joined the flow of the busy household. Dan was at the recent “It’s a Dog’s Life” event in Farmington Hills getting Abby up to date on her vaccines.

Keegan, Marc and Sherry

Marc and Sherry Langlois of Northville suffered the loss of their adult dog and the empty space in their home and their hearts led them to Keegan, a four-month old St. Bernard. “Keegan’s like having another kid,” laughs Sherry.

Demon, John and Wanda

John and Wanda Ranger, of Lennox, adopted Demon the day before this photo was taken. He came from the Harry Houdini Siberian Husky Rescue. Why name the dog rescue after the famous magician? “Because Siberian Huskies are escape artists,” said Wanda. Demon was at “It’s A Dog’s Life” to be seen by a vet. “We love dogs,” said Wanda.

Dogtor Freud

 Kay Corleone: “It made me think of what you once told me: ‘In five years the Corleone family will be completely legitimate.’ That was seven years ago.”

Michael Corleone: “I know. I'm trying, darling.”

Godfather II

            Occasionally I lie on the couch and tell Vito my troubles. Sometimes I close my eyes. I picture him in wire-rim glasses and a tweed suit. He sits in a chair and takes notes. He is silent, and I believe he is judging me. Vito as Dr. Sigmund Freud is a terrifying image.

            According to a recent Associated Press poll, nearly one-third of women say their pets are better listeners than their husbands.

            Personally, I think my husband Brian is a better listener. I trust Brian’s advice, while I am suspicious of Vito’s counsel. He doesn’t always make the best decisions. How much stock can you put in an animal that picks up cigarette butts from the road and swallows them?

            But in the interest of social science, I devised my own “listening” exam. Who was the better listener -- Brian or Vito?

            Test 1: I complain about the cost of groceries. Brian and I discuss where we’ll cut back. Vito jumps on the counter and devours a defrosting chicken. Point Brian.

            Test 2: Instead of going on an expensive date, I suggest to Brian we take a walk. Brian leads me down the street to the Harley-Davidson dealership. He salivates and makes me feel guilty as he gives me his version of puppy-dog eyes. Conversely, when I ask Vito to take a walk, he leads me to the park where we chase ducks. Point Vito.

            Test 3: I suggest we spruce up the yard. Brian surprises me with a birdhouse. Hours later I have yet to see a bird, but Vito has feathers stuck to his mouth. Point Brian.

            Brian is the better listener by a 2-1 margin.

            Men also like to commiserate with their pets. In the AP poll, nearly 20 percent of pet-owning married men said their pets are better listeners than their wives.

            The poll featured a man from New York who said it would be a toss-up whether he would take his problem to his wife of 19 years or to the animal he considers a pet – a palm-sized crayfish he named Cray Aiken. When this man was asked if Cray Aiken was a better listener than his wife, he replied,  “Absolutely. (The wife) doesn’t listen worth anything.”

            The man talks to a crayfish that doesn’t even have ears that he named after a second-rate American Idol contestant.

            No wonder his wife doesn’t listen to him. 

Biohazard Beth and 2nd Lt. Brian

 “Hey, whaddya gonna do, nice college boy, eh? Didn't want to get mixed up in the Family business, huh?

- Sonny Corleone

The Godfather

            At 6:30 a.m. yesterday, we headed to The University of Michigan to witness our daughter graduate and to hear President Obama speak. We thought those two things would be the biggest events of our day. We didn’t know that God planned to flood the earth at the same time.

            We nearly turned back and fetched Vito, in case we encountered an ark that needed a second Siberian Husky.

            We parked for $30 and spent $32  more for rain ponchos, and we hadn’t even waited in the 80,000-people line yet -- and that was just to pass through the metal detectors.

             We were so strung out from trying to get inside The Big House that we needed another breakfast, which cost $20.

            After 25 attempts, we finally got through on the cell phone to our daughter Beth. We asked her where she was. She said on the other side of the stadium. We should be able to identify her, she said, because she had pasted “biohazard” stickers on the top of her mortarboard.

             Now, many college kids will decorate their caps to stand out in the sea of black hats and gowns. Most girls “bedazzled” their caps with glitter in the shape of a heart or the word  “Hope,” in honor of the commencement speaker. But Beth had stuck on symbols of medical radioactive poison.

             With every other person in the crowd a gun-toting secret service agent or police officer, I thought wearing the word “biohazard” could maybe get a person shot.  But she didn’t think so. She works in a cancer research lab, and some of the doctors gave her the stickers so that we, her parents, could identify her. Apparently, this is how cancer doctors show their caring side. As I screamed for her to rip those darn things off the top of her head, we lost our tenuous connection. Weirdly, her father was able to identify her, nearly 100 yards away, while he looked through his camera lens, so the stickers really did do the trick.

            The ceremony, which featured President Obama, was everything we thought it would be, and more. When the President entered it was as though Elvis had been reincarnated. And in the way that Elvis was not your typical singer, President Obama is not your usual speaker. He rocked The Big House.

            After his speech, the President, in his role as Commander-in-Chief, commissioned about a dozen strikingly sharp-dressed military cadets. This was quite an honor for the ROTC soldiers, and I was so happy to be there and see it because my dear friend Debbie’s son, Brian, received his commission at that time. After the cadets spoke their oath in perfect precision, the entire assembly gave the new officers a heartfelt standing ovation.

            Godspeed 2nd Lt. Brian Meagher! (And please protect us all from real biological terror.)