Author: Scott Adamson

If you’ve happened to peek at this space, you know I’m an animal lover and are probably quite familiar with the newest four-legged addition to our family – Steve Rogers, Captain America.

He’s a rescue and a Chihuahua, so his arrival in my world accomplishes two things.

One, an animal who needed a home gets one that he can live happily in forever.

Two, he has helped fill a void for my wife and I, who lost our 17-year old Chi a year and a half ago.

Now at this point you’ve probably had your heartstrings tugged and are saying things like, “Awww,” and “How sweet.”

And I am a lovable little fellow, and therefore appreciate that reaction.

But in the interest of full disclosure, I need to share something with you:

I’m pretty sure Steve is possessed by demons.

There really is no other explanation for his frequent and horrific outbursts.

Remember the movie “The Omen?”

Remember the movie “The Exorcist?”

Now imagine Damien Thorn and Regan MacNeil getting married and then having a dog-child.

You know what you’d get?

Beelzepup, aka Steve Rogers. Captain America.

As is the wont of his breed, he yaps and he yaps a lot.

We knew this before we got him, and I’m fine with that. Sure, it’s startling when you hear a shrill, blood-curdling bark for no apparent reason – sorta like canine Tourette Syndrome. But hey – I unleash a similar scream when I get a call from a number I don’t recognize.

Then, though, he gets this evil look in his bulbous eyes and decides to attack.

Bane, our big, beautiful Maine Coon-size cat, will be minding his own business when suddenly Steve will leap from the couch, jump directly on top of Bane and take a huge bite of hair while making this unnerving hellhound-like noise.

Bane is so sweet and gentle he lets Steve get away with it, although occasionally he’ll throw a roundhouse when the tiny terror goes after his ears.

Thor, our other cat, was smart enough to rough Steve up early on, so he is rarely on the receiving end of Steve’s evil actions. Steve has learned to try a take a quick bite out of Thor’s butt, and then run away.

However, our 10-year-old dog, Charlie, can’t escape Steve’s wrath.

Any time Chuck so much as moves, Steve charges him and starts biting his legs.

Even when Charlie takes a break in the backyard and lies in the sun. Steve will run at him at full speed and dive into his chest, teeth-first.

Charlie has the sweetest nature of any dog I’ve ever known, but even he gets agitated by Steve.

The other day, I’m pretty sure I heard him call the little one an asshole.

And then there’s me.

Steve will be laying on my lap, sleeping the sleep of angels, and then suddenly jump into action and start gnoshing on me.

He went hard after the bird finger on my right hand just last week, and yesterday while I was working on this very column he chomped down on some love handle spillage on my left side.

It hurt like a mother.

My wife and I are peaceful people, so we don’t strong-arm our critters. And when it comes to Steve we try to correct him by sternly chastising him or, sometimes, sending him a terse text message.

He tends to mind his human mama much better than me, although he has tried her patience as well.

To date, however, he refuses to follow any of my orders. Yet just when I’m about to lose my temper, he’ll start wagging his tail and licking my face and being a precious little creature.

And he’ll stay that way for about five minutes … and then try to bite me.

Hopefully, we won’t have to resort to an exorcism; perhaps as he loses his puppy energy, he’ll give up the dark arts.

Meanwhile, I’ll just deal with his craziness as best I can.

After all, I do love the little devil.

Many times as people get older, they tend to get thoughtful. Perhaps they’re more inclined to remember simpler days, before the weight of responsibility began crushing them.

They long for lost youth, lost loves – memories good and bad often come flooding back, keeping them awash in mixed emotions.

Not me.

My main concern each day is figuring out what I’m going to eat the next day.

I’m serious.

Although I’m acutely aware the world is in upheaval and these are extremely dangerous times, the last thing I discuss with my wife before going to sleep is the chow I’ve got lined up the next day, when I’m going to eat it, and where the feasts will take place.

It’s a system, and one I’m damn proud of.

Now, before I explain my process, let me be clear: I’m not a glutton.

I don’t put on sweat pants and a tee shirt and spend the day sitting on the couch eating turkey legs like Henry VIII and watching Dr. Phil (although Hank probably wore breeches and hose, because kings rarely wore sweats back then. Also, Dr. Phil was not carried by the Tudor Cable Company).

In fact, I’m a fairly healthy eater – all things considered.

I’m a vegetarian and I stay away from fried foods, so there’s a lot of grub I can rule out immediately.

And that’s why it’s so important that I plan ahead.

During the week I usually eat breakfast, lunch and dinner at home.

That means there will almost always be oatmeal or fruit in the morning, vegetables in the afternoon and something centered on hempeh in the evening.

Hempeh, by the way, is modeled after tempeh but is soy-free and considered a “superfood” thanks to its hemp seed base.

And before you make a joke about hempeh no, you can’t get high from it.

It doesn’t roll well at all and I can’t even keep it lit, so I stopped trying to smoke it a long time ago.

On weekends, though, my wife and I will go out to lunch and occasionally – if we want to be like the cool kids – we might dine at a restaurant at night.

Saturday and Sunday breakfasts are also special.

And by “special” I mean we eat grits and fake sausage.

Fake sausage tastes something like “real” sausage, except pigs don’t die for our enjoyment.

In fact, there are no deaths at all in the processing of fake sausage, unless it’s some sort of freak factory accident. (Should that ever happen, I’ll be the first to send thoughts and prayers to the victims and their families).

On the other hand if, for whatever reason, fake sausage and grits doesn’t strike our fancy, we might go for pancakes or waffles.

In an “either-or” situation I always choose pancakes because they’re softer and less aggressive than waffles, and sometimes I feel like waffles are judging me.

As for lunch and dinner outside the home, there are three specific places on our list.

One is a  vegetable-centric restaurant, one serves Greek fare, and one is Mexican.

It’s important to note that the Mexican restaurant has something called
“octopus wieners” on the buffet, which I don’t think are the actual wieners of actual octopuses.

It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other since I don’t eat things with mothers, but I would’ve loved to have been in the marketing meeting when it was decided to name a food after a sea creature’s pecker.

In summation, planning out my dining options ahead of time frees up my mind to think about more important things – although at the moment I can’t think of anything more important than eating.

When I do, I’ll let you know.

After lunch.