Month: February 2018

Are you an animal person?

Technically, you are.

If you’re a human being you’re an animal, and if you’re a human being you’re also a person.

However, I’m an “animal person” in the sense that I have a real fondness for non-human animals and want them to be a major part of my life. Right now I’m the co-caregiver to a Sheltie named Charlie and two shelter cats, Thor and Bane.

But before I get to them, a bit of background.

I spent much of my youth as primarily a “dog person,” not so much by choice as by situation.

My parents – and I have since forgiven them for this – weren’t keen on having critters, but they most certainly didn’t want me to have a cat. My mother had a weird aversion to felines, and even repeated that apocryphal story about cats “sucking the breath out of babies.”

So on the off chance a baby showed up at our house, we had to make sure we didn’t have a cat around to take its breath away.

What the cat planned to do with the baby’s breath was never explained, although I understand it looks great in bouquets.

Anyway, they didn’t mind too much that I had a dog, as long as he stayed outside.

My first dog was Ringo, named after Ringo Starr. He was a big ol’ tan-and-black mutt (and serviceable drummer), but he was not allowed in the house.

And he never came in the house … as far as my folks knew.

While his primary residence was a doghouse in the backyard, I would often sneak him into the basement and sometimes – late at night – take him up to my room and let him sleep at the foot of the bed.

Who was a good dog?

Ringo was a good dog.

But as I grew up and grew older, I wanted to make animals equal partners in my world. That meant if I had a roof over my head, they had a roof over their heads.

And since I had no babies laying around with breath to be sucked out of their systems, I have had many a cat in my domicile over the years.

There have been boy cats and girl cats living in harmony with boy dogs and girl dogs, and every time any one of them crosses the Rainbow Bridge, it breaks my heart.

None of them can ever be replaced, but I believe it’s important to go to a shelter and rescue another if you’re willing and able to do so.

So that’s what my wife and I do and that means, for now, she has to deal with four boys (including myself).

Bane, our youngest cat, is nine months old and is starting to give off a Maine Coon vibe.

When we got him from the shelter I could hold him in my hand, and at night I’d take him to bed and he’d curl up under my chin.

Now he’s this gargantuan creature who has no regard for my personal space, spending a good portion of the evening plopped across my chest and purring so loudly he sounds like he should be racing at Daytona.

He’s also quite the shedder. You can’t wear black clothes around Bane because if you do, you’ll quickly look like a Sasquatch.

Thor, a 3-year old orange tabby, purrs very softly.

He also has a bad habit of attacking my butt for no apparent reason.

Used to when I would come home from work late at night, he would greet me first by rolling over for a belly rub and then – when I turned away – leap up and turn my chunky cheeks into his own personal scratching post.

If you should ever welcome me into your home or office and ask me to sit down, know that if I refuse I’m not being rude. It just means my tush has been mauled.

And just to be clear, Thor attacks my butt through my pants. I don’t walk around the house like Winnie The Pooh.

And Charlie? I don’t know if there’s ever been a sweeter dog.

He joyfully plays with his kitty bros, loves to go for walks, and sometimes just wants to squeeze up next to me when I watch TV. He’s the world’s youngest 10-year old canine.

About the only negative thing I can say about him is he has a tendency to raid the litter box for treats.

But it’s not my place to judge. If I was a dog, I’d probably do the same thing. I mean, what the hell?

But I’ll gladly choose lack of sleep, mangled buttocks and having a dog who walks around with a cat litter mustache over living in a house without animals.

The way I see it, we’re all part of one big animal family.

These are my people, even if they aren’t technically people.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and for many of you lovebirds it means flowers, chocolates and a romantic dinner, all framed by a soundtrack featuring Barry White, Harry Connick Jr. and Michael Buble.

What does it mean for me and my darling person?

We’ve recorded a bunch of “Your Worst Nightmare” episodes on Investigation Discovery, as well as of ID’s newest series, “Bride Killa.”

We’ll watch those, eat a whole pizza and then call it a night.

What … you don’t think that’s romantic?

Maybe not in the traditional sense. But then again, we’re married and we aren’t exactly “traditional” people.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ve done the whole Valentine’s Day shtick before.

In fourth grade I saved up all my pennies, nickels and quarters to buy my girlfriend a big, heart-shaped box of chocolates.

And this was a Whitman’s Sampler, too, not one of those knock-off brands full of cheap-ass chocolate filled with that weird jelly.

I can’t remember her name – or even what became of her – but I do know she had polished off the entire box by lunch period.

You’re welcome, fourth grade girlfriend, whoever you are and wherever you are.

Once in high school, of course, the stakes get much higher.

Maybe you’d actually have flowers sent to the school.

This was a truly “romantic” gesture, of course, but hardly cost-effective. The markup on flowers is about 500 percent on Valentine’s Day.

But if you go that route, just stick to red roses. I had a dozen yellow roses sent to my junior year girlfriend because I thought it was unique, not realizing yellow roses mean “friendship” and not “love.”

Turns out in my case that was not a correctable error.

And then when you become an adult, you can end up spending a fortune on Valentine’s Day.

There are roses AND chocolates AND a candlelight dinner at an intimate restaurant such as Cracker Barrel or Golden Corral.*

* Golden Corral makes you bring your own candle but it’s the best buffet in the USA, so it’s worth it.

Still, you play along with the holiday for as long as you have to, and then you finally (hopefully) get comfortable ignoring it.

And really, Saint Valentine’s Day was never meant to be about commerce.

It originated as a Western Christian Feast Day honoring a 3rd century Roman saint who was martyred, conveniently enough, on St. Valentine’s Day in 269.

I assume flowers were sent to his funeral, but I doubt Whitman’s Samplers were available back then.

Plus, sending chocolates would’ve been messed up.

You can thank Geoffrey Chaucer for making the day all about romance. In his 1382 poem, “Parliement of Foules” he wrote:

“For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.”

What stands out to me more than anything is that the dude could not spell. If you took a red ink marker to make corrections on his work, it’d look like the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.

However, if you decipher it, what Geoff is trying to say is that on Valentine’s Day, there will be birds making cheese.

I’m not sure what this has to do with flowers or candy, but this is what Mr. Wikipedia says and I am in no position to argue.

Certainly, there is nothing wrong with a traditional Valentine’s Day celebration.

A delicious dinner, a bottle of wine and then some intimate alone time (remember the safe word is “Gryffindor”) is a wonderful way to spend Cupid’s biggest sales day.
But my wife and I love each other and have fun any time we’re together so, at the risk of sounding cheesy, every day is Valentine’s Day for us.

And that being the case, we’ll just stick with the ID channel and a three-cheese pizza tonight.

Unless we decide to be spontaneous and head out to the Golden Corral. Nothing puts you in the mood like the endless chocolate fountain.