Category: Funny Business

Captain America, Steve Rogers, is a supersoldier who battled Axis powers in World War II, was frozen for seven decades, and then was reanimated so he – the First Avenger – could fight alongside the modern Avengers.

Steve Rogers, Captain America, is our new dog – a rescue Chihuahua who fights a small stuffed monkey, gets kissed on the head a lot, and is now a member of what amounts to a Fantastic Four of animals that live with me and my wife.

For whatever reason, having four critters establishes the proper feng shui in our household, so to that end order has been restored to our corner of the universe.

Steve joins Charlie the Sheltie and Bane and Thor, two shelter cats, as a full-fledged family member.

But …

Steve is very young.

Steve is also very Chihuahua.

And that means on a scale of 1 to 10, Steve has an energy level of 793.

Having never raised human children from their infancy, I have no real point of reference when it comes to the differences between nurturing toddler humans and nurturing toddler canines.

I realize you probably shouldn’t crate train humans or teach them to poop in the yard, although to each his own.

I don’t judge.

And I understand human babies are fragile, sometimes cry in the middle of the night, and can be very high maintenance.

Chihuahuas present different challenges, of course, but are most certainly high maintenance.

Steve freaks out any time my wife or I leave the room, making this weird, high-pitched noise which sounds similar to the sounds I imagine Gilbert Gottfried makes while getting goosed.

He also pees a little every time he gets excited, which is quite often. I’m not sure if that will go away as he grows up, but I can’t really fault him.

I pee a little every time I get excited, too, like when I find a Pop Tart I didn’t realize I had, or hear the theme song to the “Batman” TV series.

One issue that has been a bit of a problem, though, concerns his randy nature.

Although he was “fixed” 10 days ago, Steve remains quite the horndog.

In the brief time we’ve had him he has been romantically linked to Charlie’s bits and pieces, both my wife’s and my right arm, a neighbor’s left calf, and several cardboard boxes (boxes that I am not at liberty to name due to nondisclosure agreements).

Oddly – yet thankfully – he largely ignores both cats.

Thor, our oldest feline, sized him up fairly quickly the first day we brought him home, gave him a hiss and a paw swipe to the nose, and then went about his business.

Steve won’t even look at him and Thor responds in kind.

Bane, who is still technically a kitten but is on pace to be the size of a Bengal tiger by Christmas, seemed almost fearful of Steve at first.

He stayed mostly on the porch and waited to eat during that 10-minute window late at night when Steve decides to sleep.

But after two or three days he started getting closer and closer to the Chi, trying to figure out if Steve was merely an oversized rat and edible.

Ultimately, Bane apparently has come to terms with the fact that the 4-pound dog is not a snack, and now passes by him without incident or acknowledgement.

As of this writing, Charlie is sprawled out on the floor napping while Bane and Thor are snoozing away in the two rocking chairs situated in the corners of our den.

And Steve?

Well, Captain America is currently licking my chin and forcing me to type one-handed because I’m holding him in my left arm.

At any moment he’ll leap down and attempt to assault Charlie – who has learned the hard way that restraining orders are not honored in the animal kingdom.

Then Steve will rip and snort and run and jump and flip and flop and probably pee a little.

And I’m gonna love every single minute of it.

And maybe pee a little, too.

Last Wednesday, I had a near-death experience.

As I faded from consciousness and started to slip into the great unknown, I was suddenly pulled into a bright, white tunnel of light. And at the end of the tunnel there were several figures waving to me. They weren’t completely clear, but I’m pretty sure they were members of the boy band O-Town, urging me to join them at the Mohegan Sun Casino and Resort.

But I refused, for I was not yet ready to pass from this life, even though going to one of the largest, most spectacular entertainment, gaming, dining and shopping destinations in the United States was tempting.

Nah, I’m just funnin’ with you.

I was nowhere near death (or a casino), but I did feel bad enough that my wife, Mary, insisted on taking me to a doc-in-a-box – for the second time in five days.

The “adventure” started last weekend when my back began to ache.

That morning I had walked several miles and done some yard work, and I just figured maybe I pulled a muscle or something.

By afternoon the pain increased dramatically, and spread to my stomach.

And this wasn’t the garden variety stomach ache – you know, the kind where it hisses and growls and occasionally speaks in unknown tongues. This was a sharp, almost continuous pain that caused me to double over.

Mary started researching what my malady might be. Even though the pain was in my back and stomach, it could be my heart, gallbladder,  kidneys, any number of things.

There was also the chance that an alien had embedded itself in my stomach and was prepared to burst out John Hurt-style, but it’s been months since I’ve had close contact with extraterrestrials, so I quickly discounted that as an option.

Whatever it was, she ushered me into the car and began driving toward the clinic. Long story short, the clinic was closed, but by the time we got there I felt better anyway, and we decided to head home.

The more I thought about it, the more I was sure it was just a case of gas gone nuclear and would never happen again.

Man, was I ever wrong.

It happened again mid-week, and this time we went to a bigger, better (and more importantly, open) doc-in-the-box.

It’s no exaggeration to say the pain I felt was the worst I’ve ever experienced. So much so that after doing X-rays and performing an electrocardiogram test, the doctor actually had to give me a pain-relieving shot before sending me to the emergency room.

That’s when my day got markedly worse.

I was told the minute I got to the ER I was to see a certain doctor, who would immediately set up a CAT scan. That was fine with me, because I love animals.

But the CAT scan didn’t come until after I had been there for five hours – and after a nurse had used my left arm for target practice trying to draw blood. In retrospect, I don’t think he was a nurse at all, but just a random dude who happened upon some blue scrubs, showed up, and clocked in.

He and the staff also insisted on redoing all the tests that had already been done at the doc-in-a-box a couple of hours earlier, even though the paperwork I presented told them specifically not to do that.

This caused Mary to curse.

She cursed out of earshot of my tormentors, but she cursed eloquently and with great conviction.

It’s one of the reasons I love her.

Once the crew finally got their shit together, they gave me another shot for pain, put me on an IV, and administered an ultrasound test. They looked at my liver, gallbladder, appendix, and, I suppose, whatever else lurked beneath the surface.

By the end of my seven hour odyssey you know what they found?

Nothing.

I mean, they found all the organs, but they just couldn’t pinpoint the problem.

Kidney stones were ruled out, and they couldn’t be sure my gall bladder or appendix were causing the pain.

They just told me to follow up with my primary care physician, gave me a prescription for Hillbilly Heroin, and then sent me on my way.

I was puzzled – and concerned.

I eat healthy foods (mostly, except for Pop-Tarts), I exercise (usually, unless I’d rather sit around and eat Pop-Tarts) and my weight is under control (give or take 15 or 20 pounds … and the availability of Pop-Tarts).

But then I realized that some people in the best of health die unexpectedly.

Look at Roger Bannister. He was the first man to break the four-minute mile and was in tip-top physical condition. Yet, he passed away recently.

He was 88, but still.

Finally, my “regular” doctor looked me over on Thursday and sent me to a gastroenterologist, who set up an MRI on Friday that proved negative.

So …

On Monday I’ll have something called a HIDA scan in which a radioactive tracer is injected into a vein in my arm. My only hope at this point is that during the procedure, I’ll be bitten by a spider and thus became a superhero.

I think after all this nonsense, I’ve earned it.

I’m not sure if it’s because of my age or what, but virtually every time I go to get a haircut these days the stylist thinks I want to walk out looking like vintage Porter Wagoner and Conway Twitty, or current John Mellencamp.

Porter and Conway, of course, once rocked that slick, high hair that was combed straight back. If they had ever brushed it forward, it would’ve reached their navels.

About the only other people you see with this particular ‘do are TV evangelists, funeral home directors and the brothers of killers on “Snapped.”

Mellencamp used to have basic “rocker” hair – long and mussed. It looked good on him.

As he got older, though, he channeled his inner Porter/Conway, adding quarts of Valvoline and seeing just how high on his head his hair would go.

These days the dude looks like a cross between Charles Starkweather and Brainiac thanks to his huge noggin and high hair.

This is not how I want to look.

This is not how I’ve ever wanted to look.

Of course, we’ve all evolved in terms of hairstyles.

As a kid, growing up in the sixties and cursed with poor eyesight, I had short, slick brown hair that accentuated my black horn rimmed glasses. I looked like Clark Kent if, in fact, Clark Kent had never left Krypton and instead was a member of the planet’s debate team.

By the 70s, in an effort to be more appealing to the opposite sex, I wore contact lenses and sported the “butt cut,” which was longer hair parted down the middle.

It would’ve been a decent look except my hard contacts were extremely uncomfortable and made my eyes water, so I always walked around looking as though I had just watched “Old Yeller.”

In the 1980s I resumed wearing glasses and moved more toward the Elvis Costello look. While in a perfect world I would’ve preferred to wear my hair long, it started flipping on the ends, causing it to resemble Marlo Thomas’ cut in “That Girl.”

I love Marlo Thomas.

I didn’t love looking like Marlo Thomas in drag.

By the 1990s, I had settled on hair that was neither very long nor very short. And aside from a few brief flirtations with the “old hippie” look, I’ve basically stuck to a relatively simple hairstyle.

However, at no point have I ever slicked my hair back, which makes me wonder why people who cut my hair think that’s what I want.

Now – in the interest of full disclosure – I go to one of those haircut franchise places so I never know from one visit to the next who will be cutting my hair.

I just walk in and whoever has an available chair takes me. They’re all capable, obviously, but sometimes they don’t seem to listen.

“So what are we looking to do today?” Haircut person asks.

“Really, just a half-inch all the way around,” I say.

Simple, right?

Nope.

They snip and spritz and snip and spritz and then blow it dry while combing it backward.

Every single time.

“How does it look?” Haircut person asks.

“Actually, I don’t comb it back, so would you mind trimming some more off the top?” I ask.

“Sure,” haircut person says. “About how much?”

“Oh, 11 or 12 inches,” I say.

Once my hair reaches a reasonable length they ask if I want any “hair product” and I always decline, opting instead to fight my own style battle when I get home.

Look, I realize I’m not GQ material … I have no illusions that I’m going to leave the shop looking like a young George “Goober” Lindsey.

I also know that – technically – I’m a “senior,” and apparently society expects people over 50 to look a certain way.

Well, society can bite my ass.

I like my hair a little messy and I like to have the option of letting bangs rest gently against my forehead.

If I wanted to look like Porter Wagoner, Conway Twitty or John Mellencamp, I’d have become a singer-songwriter.

Instead I’m just a writer – one who will forever sing the praises of the first stylist who figures out how I want my hair to look.