Vinnie

If I seem a little dog crazy lately that's because I am. It's almost impossible not to be when you have a dog and you invest even the slightest amount of time and energy into fulfilling the relationship between you and your four-legged friend. Especially, since dogs live in the moment and the moment alone, when the reward is almost immediate and the accompanying sensation can often times be an overwhelming flood of pride and joy mixed together. While Vinnie, my girlfriend and I are on our daily walks together sometimes all it takes is a quick glance in his direction to see his smiling, determined face to know that she and I are doing everything we can to balance his existence and that he, in turn, has become much more than a pet to the both of us.

Aww...

I often wonder if I hadn't broken down and started watching The Dog Whisperer with Cesar Millan that fateful, hungover day with my roommates if I ever would have started thinking about owning my own dog. I'd thought about it, sure, but that didn't mean I was ready to own a dog let alone care for it properly and help it lead a balanced life. And, up until a few years ago, the only dog I would've considered owning would have been an English Bull Dog that I would have named Maximus; I would've adorned him with a spiked collar, sunglasses and a ripped muscle t-shirt and the two of us would have spent our afternoons together drinking beer, watching television, napping, eating potato chips and sitting on the front porch telling stories about the good old days when men were men and dogs were allowed to run for public office. Those fantasies quickly faded away as the ideal of the "lazy, couch potato" bull dog was quickly dispelled by more than a few episodes of The Dog Whisperer that dealt with bull dogs that were in the "red zone" state of either obsession or aggression. It didn't scare me that these dogs would go ballistic at the sight of a skateboard, basketball or obese man trying to ride a tractor, but it did shake me awake to the fact that hundreds of years of breeding for "bully tendencies" would not go away because I made my dog wear an ironic t-shirt. I knew, deep down, that if I owned my English Bull Dog before I was absolutely ready to own one I would hurt him more than help him; even though they can be a lazy breed, and they can be the ideal couch potato dog, I didn't trust myself to engender those characteristics in a dog just then. So, as is per usual, I focused my attention on focusing my attention towards something else and not a particular breed of dog that happened to aesthetically please me. (All of this, is in big part to listening to and absorbing the things that Cesar Millan teaches us every week on the National Geographic Channel) I stopped focusing on things like appearance and reputation and started focusing on energy.I waited for years before I knew I was ready to own a dog, and because I shifted my thinking away from a specific type of dog, I was free to go out into the local shelters in search of any dog that matched my energy; which is how I came to own Vinnie.

The first day I saw Vinnie at Lollypop Farm ( a fantastic animal shelter based in Fairport, NY) I passed him by. Another dog - a Great Pyrenees named Winnie - caught the attention of myself and my girlfriend because she looked like a polar bear, was laid back and very friendly towards us and anyone else that stopped by her kennel. Vinnie, on the other hand, just laid there looking miserable and wouldn't even respond when I crouched down to introduce myself to him; he wouldn't even look up at us. The love of my life and I were in a rush to get to a family party, but thought we had time to do a meet and greet with Winnie to see if she might be a match for us; however, the shelter was incredibly busy and all the handlers were off doing other pre-adoption counseling so we ran out of time and had to leave. As we were driving to my sister's house for a birthday dinner I fully expected to arrive at the shelter the following day to adopt Winnie and take her home. Still, the image of Vinnie laying in his kennel, looking sad, sore and out of sorts stuck with me and I couldn't get over his immense, natural beauty. "I think that husky was the best looking dog I've ever seen," I casually remarked as we drove away from Lollypop Farm.

The next morning I showed up at the shelter without my girlfriend (this much has gotten me into so much hot water I won't even get into the details about it, needless to say, men of the world, never adopt or buy a dog without the express -possibly written- consent of your loved one, it only leads to arguments and tension between you, I, for one, learned my lesson very harshly and still feel bad for excluding my saint of girlfriend from the decision making process thinking a "surprise" would be the way to go; learn from my mistake, reader) and, without even looking at other dogs, went right to the adoption counter and asked if I could visit with Winnie. "She was adopted this morning, but there are a lot of other, great dogs available that you can take home today," the very nice lady whose name I can remember informed me. I shrugged my shoulders, said "thank you," and went about walking aimlessly through the glass enclosed viewing/kennel areas of the shelter. I was not, in any way shape or form, ready for what happened when I made my way into the area where they were keeping Vinnie.

He was still there, in the same, miserable position I had left him in the day before and I wondered whether or not anyone had walked him recently. As I approached his kennel I said nothing and moved confidently without feeling bad for his plight and crouched down next to him without reaching out to pet him. I stayed like that for a few minutes, patiently waiting for him to react to me being in his space. The other dogs in his area were gradually quieting down - before they were going crazy, barking and yapping and jumping up against their kennels - and I made sure to wait until each dog in the room was, if not calm, than actively submitting to my presence (just like Cesar would do, I thought). Sure enough as soon as the room was ready and waiting, Vinnie picked his head up and looked at me. I looked at him. He stood up, wagged his tail and licked my hand in a very calm but alert way, and then he walked over to his water bowl to get a drink before coming back over to me for a little more attention. We spent a good five minutes there silently communicating back and forth before I stood up and went to the adoption desk to sign up for a meeting with what would be my future dog.

The second Vinnie entered the meeting room he was a totally different dog. I made sure to practice "no touch, no talk, no eye contact" while Vinnie sniffed out the room and, eventually, made his way over to me to say hello. He was limping around because he had spent so much time lying on his right hip that it had gotten sore, but I didn't let this bother me, and I knew if he walked it out a little more he would be fine. Sure enough, in a minute or two the limp was gone and Vinnie was sitting between myself and the two ladies who served as my adoption advisers waiting to see what would happen next. "He has a bit of a history," one lady told me wryly, "and he's scheduled to be put down this afternoon," she continued and at this point I perked up and said, "what do you mean?" She went on to explain that he and his old pack member - a 4 year old St. Bernard - were playing with a 3 week old Labrador puppy that one of the neighbors had brought over; which was a mistake. [*ATTENTION FUTURE DOG OWNERS - you should never, ever, ever buy a dog from a breeder that is willing to give it to you before it is, at a minimum, 8 weeks old. It's incredibly important for, among other things, their social and physical development! Puppies don't even open their eyes until they are about 2 weeks old, and any respectable breeder would never let her puppies go until they are, at least, 2 months old!* ] Anyway, the playing got out of hand between the two much larger dogs and the innocent little puppy, and without getting into the gory details, the St. Bernard accidentally killed the Lab while they were wrestling. Vinnie, in no way a completely innocent bystander in the whole situation mind you, was carted off with the St. Bernard as the aforementioned neighbors threatened legal action if the dogs weren't "taken care of." I stared directly at the shelter volunteers who were visibly tense around Vinnie and said, "eh, that's not a problem, but where's the St. Bernard?" I wasn't planning on adopting both, but I wanted to know how Vinnie's old pack member was doing, hoping I could get a read on his energy as well, the volunteers looked at me and said "he's getting prepped as we speak." Moments later, before I would walk Vinnie for the first time around Lollypop Farm's outdoor play area, I saw this poor, lumbering, beautiful dog walking the green mile to oblivion and my heart sank.

Here's the thing, future dog owners and pack leaders, you absolutely cannot let something like that sway your decision making process when you are about to adopt a dog. Whether they are brand new to the shelter or hours away from certain death should not alter your path at all. So, as hard as it was for me to block that image from my mind, I did my best to focus on the present while ignoring the emotions that were bubbling up inside me. I took a deep breath, cleared my head, attached the leash to Vinnie's collar and away we went, walking side by side for what would be the first of many, many times. It was an instant connection unlike anything I've ever felt with a dog before. Vinnie stayed on my side, rarely pulled and reacted when I corrected him, but he wasn't all sugar and spice and everything nice. He is, after all, a working dog with a tremendous amount of energy; which became obvious moments later when the leash was off and we started to play. I'd never seen a dog run like he ran and it was a gorgeous, edifying moment in my life, because as soon as I saw him running I knew he was my dog. It's one of those things that can't be explained, and I'm sure Cesar would agree that he felt an almost instant connection with both Daddy and Junior, but even the almighty Dog Whisperer can't account for the mystical moment when you know a dog is yours. It just happens and it's astounding the effect it has on a person mentally and physically. You just feel everything change around you. It really is magic.

Two hours later we were home together. I walked Vinnie around the neighborhood to get him used to the scents and sounds and after wards I went out to work in the backyard and Vinnie kept me company. My girlfriend got home, we argued and fought and I felt like a jerk for a while after, but eventually she came to love Vinnie as much, if not more than, I do. Now, almost a year and a half later the three of us are a very functional pack and I couldn't imagine living without him. Dogs are like that. You never really know what life is like until you try to live it with a dog. They have this uncanny ability to reflect your spirit. If I am in a bad mood, Vinnie is unruly. If I am frustrated, Vinnie is a jerk. If I am rushing around the house, late for work, Vinnie goes bananas and, usually, will knock down the gate blocking him from the kitchen the second we leave the house. However, flip that all around and the opposite is true. If I'm in a good mood, Vinnie is happy. If I am confident, calm and content, Vinnie is the same. If I take my time getting ready for work and go about my routine without rushing, Vinnie remains calm and usually sleeps until it's time to let him out for his morning bathroom break. It's truly remarkable that in order for me to be self aware all I need to do is look at my dog and see what emotional state is being reflected back at me. This has helped me immeasurably in my day to day life as it's allowed me to be much, much more in touch with what's going on inside my head.

This reflection tells me it's either time for a nap, or there is a piece of bacon on the window sill he doesn't want me to notice.

In closing: dogs are damn near perfect and can change your life for the better or for the worse depending on what you are willing to do to make sure they live a happy, healthy and balanced life. If you're wondering whether or not you're doing right by your furry best friend, all you have to do is pay attention to what he/she is telling you. Dogs are always communicating with us - even though we may not know it - and they pick up on everything we do, especially the energy and emotions were are projecting, so, if you're lucky enough to have a happy, healthy and balanced dog, the chances are you are a happy, healthy and balanced human! It's pretty much that simple, and so is your dog.

CoCo? No Mo.

First, we here at "Where the Wild Things Were Last Thursday Around 8" would like to extend our heartfelt condolences to Conan O'Brien, Andy Richter, Max Weinberg and the rest of the cast and crew of the recently disassembled Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien. As most of my generation would hopefully admit, Conan O'Brien is and always will be our late night talk show host, and even though the format has become something of an afterthought to the coveted 18-39 age demographic that at one time fueled the late night ratings, it has become obvious to me that when Generations X and Y are called upon to show our support, we will do so in droves. Sadly, however, it was too little too late and Mr. O'Brien's far too brief a stint as the host of The Tonight Show has come to an end.

I wanted to wait until everything played out before I made any comments about the events of the past two weeks, because an overly optimistic part of me still believed that maybe - just maybe - NBC, Jay Leno and Conan would come to their senses and do the right thing; which, of course, didn't happen. Mr. Leno will be returning to The Tonight Show and Mr. O'Brien has been cut loose to do whatever he pleases - as long as it happens seven months from now - which, honestly, could be a good thing for everyone involved.

Conan, whom I have adored since I was old enough to stay up and watch Late Night with Conan O'Brien in the mid-90's, is not an ordinary late night host by any stretch of the imagination. Consider some of his most beloved characters like the "masturbating bear," the "horny manatees" and, his most famous co-creation, "Triumph the Insult Comic Dog," and it's obvious to even the casual observer that Mr. O'Brien's unique brand of comedy is not for everyone; which was part of the problem during his seven month tenure as host of The Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien.

Older audiences tuning in hoping to hear familiar monologues with made-to-order jokes were not ready for the rubber faced funnyman to hop around the stage string-dancing while doing a horrible, yet uproarious, impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Nor were they prepared to give Conan much of a chance, and, hey, I don't blame them. After nearly 20 years of the most watered down late night comedy possible (which, by the way, regularly trumped CBS' much more "edgy" (yeah, right the Top Ten Lists are now "edgy) David Letterman in the ratings war) why would viewers stick around for such a bizarre spectacle of silliness when all they want is to be told the same joke they thought of earlier that day while reading an article about Amy Winehouse? Even though NBC was hoping for Conan to tap into the highly sought after 18-39 year old demographic, it was as if they forgot that historically, that age group could care less about The Tonight Show, and once word leaked that NBC had asked Mr. O'Brien to "water down" his format to meet the needs of a broader audience most of us thought "well, there that goes," and after a few weeks of a very tame Conan, decided their late night viewing would be better spent elsewhere.

I blame myself and the generation I am a part of for the lack of support CoCo had up until his last two weeks of the show - which saw ratings sky rocket into unknown, late night territory - because we, more than any other group of people, should have been ready to watch and accept whatever television show Mr. O'Brien put forth to the general public, but we didn't. Instead, as is the usual with Generations X and Y, we got snarky almost immediately and dismissed Mr. O'Brien's efforts just as quickly; which is surprising when you consider Conan was a writer during the best seasons of The Simpsons and was almost unanimously adored by the same people who refused to watch him at 11:35 when he hosted Late Night with Conan O'Brien at 12:35. It's not that we didn't watch at all, mind you, it's that we didn't watch enough. I looked forward to my daily hour with Conan and crew, but it appears that I am in the minority and that frustrates me to no end.

I don't understand why people are so unwilling to accept the type of comedy that Conan O'Brien excels in; which is to say brilliant but silly at the same time. Especially after decades of Monty Python worship and the recent popularity boost seen by another smart-but-silly show named 30 Rock which capitalizes on the most absurd aspects of humor so keenly it almost seems realistic. Ah, but is that really the case? Turns out, what I thought would be more than stellar ratings after three straight years of taking home multiple Emmy awards and nominations that 30 Rock would be one of the most watched television shows going right now, but, oddly, it's not. Perhaps I am not as intuitive as I once believed, or maybe it goes back to that old political saying when the candidate you didn't vote for wins an election and, astonished, you proclaim "but everyone I know voted for him!" Could the niche that I live in be so tiny that it's co-inhabited by such a small amount of people? I mean, if 30 Rock wins any more Emmy's they are going to have to name the award after Tina Fey, but where are the viewers, and if they don't start showing up soon is NBC going to pull the plug? What about other NBC comedies I adore like Parks and Recreation, Community and The Office? How long will it be before the hatchet men set their gaze upon the best two hours of network comedy going right now? If what has happened with The Tonight Show is any indication it won't be that long before all my favorite shows are feeling the heat from their corporate overloads to do away with their specialized style of humor and open up to a broader audience. I shudder at the thought of Tracy Jordan being reigned in to accommodate the tastes of an audience that, if they haven't started watching already, most likely won't be watching NBC at 9:30 on Thursday's anyway. What about Parks and Recreation? That show, like The Office before it, is building a fan base slowly but surely with some of the strongest writing, performance and comedy I've had the pleasure of watching, but the ratings are down right abysmal by primetime comedy standards. Does this mean I should absorb as much Ron Swanson as is humanly possible over the next few months just in case P&R gets the axe due to low ratings at the end of year? Probably.

There was a time, way back before I can remember, when fledgling shows were given a chance to develop an audience and a voice, tone, structure and style over a period of time with the hopes that critical acclaim, or sheer force of will, would draw in an audience - any audience really-, but those days have passed us by, and the almighty "instant gratification" is what's required for networks to give shows breathing room to develop. Without that patience, and faith a little show about nothing named Seinfeld would have never been given the chance to flourish in it's second and third seasons the way it did after it's first season was, well, less than a stirring success. Now look at it, it's one of the most successful television shows of all time and when it debuted it registered as nothing more than a "blip" on most viewer's nightly radar. What about The Simpsons? The longest running animated sitcom in the history of the world went head to head against The Cosby Show when it first started gaining in popularity, and even though it didn't win week in and week it out, Fox never panicked, and let the show do what it was doing, and lo and behold, 20+ years later The Simpsons is still on the air and Bill Cosby is nowhere to be seen (well, on television at least).

That all being said, and as sad as I am to see Conan O'Brien leave The Tonight Show in order to make way for Jay Leno, I am not surprised at all by what transpired and, in fact, once I heard of the plummeting ratings for Mr. Leno's show and Mr. O'Brien's show, I knew something was going to happen. I just had no idea that the lead in (Mr. Leno's show) that continued to see it's ratings dwindle to the point of embarrassment, causing viewers to tune into other nightly news broadcasts on other networks in the process, would be the show getting the star treatment. From my perspective it all seems backwards. If the problem was a drop in ratings due to Mr. Leno's unsuccessful nightly experiment at 10:00, why did the network think it would be best to pander to Leno and not O'Brien? I suppose it would be best to look at Mr. Leno's overall success at 11:35; which, as much as I loathe the man right now, was substantially impressive. For all his faults, Mr. Leno does indeed strike a chord with the older demographic of viewers who love his "headlines" and his "Jay Walking," and I can't really say they are any more to blame than I am for having a strong affinity for watching Mr. O'Brien' s oft repeated "In the Year 3000" sketch. To each his own. Still, the logic behind the decision boggles my mind if it's based on traditional network maneuvering.

Jay Leno's show was getting hammered in the ratings. This led to more and more viewers changing the channel away from NBC on a nightly basis, and those same viewers were not changing the channel back to NBC to watch the evening news; which means those same viewers were most likely not watching The Tonight Show, which accounts for it's ratings failure, or at least that's how I see it. From what I understand, a "lead-in" show with high ratings is a sure fire way to ensure that any show following it will have a large "carry-over" audience that boosts ratings. This is why the show following American Idol every week always has ridiculously high ratings (even if it's terrible). The same can be applied to shows following Monday Night Football, The World Series or any other high profile event that is sure to draw in an audience almost despite itself. So, with that in mind, wouldn't it have made sense to do away with Leno instead of O'Brien? Evidently not.

Evidently, the powers that be over at NBC are much more committed to making Jay Leno happy than they are making Conan O'Brien happy, but to be fair they tried to come up with a solution that both men would agree to, the only problem is one of them didn't. I thought, after watching Mr. O'Brien for fifteen years or so that he would have accepted the shift, made light of it and continued on. I had no idea Big Red would show the gumption and integrity he did when he penned his now infamous letter declaring he would not accept the move to 12:05. It's what most of us would dream of doing in the face of such corporate mishandling, and it's something that I applaud Conan for doing. He showed guts and determination and a boat load of forethought. Mr. O'Brien knew it wouldn't be The Tonight Show as he had come to understand and adore it, but some bastardized version of the most successful franchise in television history that would be nothing more than a hamhanded attempt to fit too much TV into an hour and a half. ~sigh~ Still, I wish it hadn't happened and that I had Conan's goofy face to look forward to tonight and for many years to come.

I'm sure Conan O'Brien will end up on one station or another in September when he is literally free to go where he wants, and I hope, deep down, that the people who didn't tune in to NBC to see him nightly will follow him to whichever network he lands on. I know it's wishful thinking on my part, because who knows what will happen in the next seven months? I don't. I'm the guy who thought he was going to have at least a decade to settle in at 11:35 every night and watch one of the funniest, most endearing men on television do his thing, and look where that's got me.

In closing, Mr. O'Brien will be back and better than ever and he will have my support and the support of millions of people just like me who thought what happened to him was tragically absurd. I wish he and his crew the best over the coming days, weeks and months that I am positive will be incredibly difficult. As always, I will forever be a member of "Team CoCo," and to cop a phrase from Mr. O'Brien himself, "please, don't be cynical... work hard and be kind and you will achieve things you've never dreamed of." Truer words have never been spoken.

Thanks for the years of laughs, Mr. O'Brien. These next seven months are going to be a bear... a "masturbating bear" if you will.

Inkie, Alex and Vinnie

When I was in second grade the neighbors across the street from my house - an incredibly nice, brilliant, Indian family whose patriarch and matriarch were both warm, kindhearted doctors, and whose sons were geniuses of the highest level - adopted a black lab puppy named Inkie that instantaneously took a shine to me and my dog at the time, Alex (an epileptic American Cocker Spaniel). Specifically, Inkie loved my shoes and would follow me around until she had the opportunity to bowl me over, pin me down and tear off one of my slip-ons, sneakers, sandals or whatever my chosen footwear for the day would be. If I was by myself Inkie had no problem whatsoever obtaining a brand new chew toy from off my very foot, but if Alex (a much smaller dog even when Inkie was only a puppy) was with me it was a different story altogether.

If I was alone, Inkie would find me in the middle of a field on my way back from building another fort in the woods or as I was walking home from my neighbors house down the street, and as soon as she saw me she would sprint towards me as fast as she could. When I was in range she would leap up and knock me down. While she was hovering over me she would sometimes sit on my chest while she tried to take my shoe from me, but other times it was just a quick "snatch and run" attack and the shoe would be gone before I knew what happened. I lost 4 good pairs of shoes to that dog and at least 5 others were chewed up and given back but were still wearable.

If my dog was with me, Inkie would see us from her spot underneath a pine tree atop the hill across the street from my house and slowly make her way towards both of us. Her head would be down, her tail would be low and slowly wagging back and forth and her tongue would loll gently out of her smiling mouth as she sauntered over to say hello. Alex, despite his obvious lack of size, never bristled at her appearance, never growled at her, barred his teeth or even so much as barked. They would greet each other the way dogs do (nose-to-butt-and-back-again), and after a few seconds Inkie would fall in line behind Alex and myself and the three of us would be off to play ball in the larger part of my yard. Alex in front, me in the middle and Inkie in the back.

As the two dogs played the Labrador Retriever would consistently give the ball to my epileptic Cocker Spaniel. If Alex so much as looked in Inkies' general direction, my furry neighborhood nemesis would move away from the ball immediately and Alex would pluck it up and sprint back to me. I noticed this little "glitch" in Inkie's behavior, so the next time I was walking through the field towards my house and saw Inkie charging toward me I would desperately call for my dog to come out and defend me; which he did, each and every time it happened until Inkie lost all desire to chase me down and drag away my docksiders. I didn't know then what I know now, but my old buddy the epileptic Alex was in fact a calm-assertive pack leader who didn't take much guff from anything, especially this upstart young pup who needed to be taught some manners.

Flash forward to 2004 and I'm sitting in the living room of the house I was renting with two of my friends after a night of drinking that would be considered criminal in 38 states, and we're watching this little Mexican guy named Cesar Millan on the National Geographic Channel "rehabilitate dogs and train people" and a light bulb went off in my head. "That's what Alex was doing!" I exclaimed loudly to my hungover and confused roommates who had no idea what I was talking about. "My old dog, Alex, he used to do that to my neighbors dog whenever it tried to knock me down and take one of my shoes," they looked like they were starting to get it, so I continued, "Alex would knock Inkie down to the ground just like Cesar does and wouldn't move until the other dog relaxed." I looked at their faces and saw what I can only describe as an ecstatic look of confirmation that all the time they had spent watching the Dog Whisperer with Cesar Millan had not been wasted on a fairy tale world where dogs could be easily corrected by a look, or a noise (tssst is now my favorite word) or a gentle touch in the right place. "That's freaking great," my roommate Mike said as Cesar rolled an especially aggressive Pit Bull named Emily onto her side, "did it look just like that?" "No," I said, "Alex was a dog."

To watch Mr. Millan with dogs is what it must have been like to watch Picasso paint or to listen to Mozart play the piano, because he does it so effortlessly that it's almost impossible to comprehend how much is actually going on, and I always suspected there was much more happening in front of me than I was able to understand. It took a brilliant article by genius writer Malcolm Gladwell called "What The Dog Saw" from the May 22, 2006 issue of The New Yorker to open my eyes to what was actually going on. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, Mr. Millan exudes leadership on such a primal and poetic level that dogs almost have no choice but to happily follow him around, and the amazing thing, and the thing that always startles me no matter how often it happens, even the dogs that fight him the hardest seem to love him the most when their dance together comes to an end. It's truly beautiful to see, but something I hope I never have to experience first hand with my own dog.

Watching the show now, I'm sickened by the state of affairs in the pet world. A lot of owners, even those that claim to watch the show religiously, have no clue what they are doing and rationalize their behavior away as if it never existed in the first place. I can't say I'm the patron saint of dog owners, but I can say that I care enough about my dog to give him the most balanced life I can. Vinnie, my dog, and I are buddies for sure, but I work hard to establish my leadership role each and every day, and so, to her credit, does my wonderful girlfriend who walks him like a freaking pro, much better than I do.

I wish I could devote 4 hours a day to walking Vinnie, but that's unrealistic and would lead to me being out of work and destitute. To make up for it we bought him a backpack which we make heavy with weights so he can work off more energy while getting a good mental work out and tending to the nature of his breed (Siberian Husky) by making him feel as if he is doing a job. The walks last around an hour and cover just under 3 miles of territory, and my girlfriend and I try to make it "100% perfect" for the entire time we're out with him. We have our bumps, though, and every once in a while Vinnie starts to act up; which, thanks to watching Dog Whisperer with Cesar Millan, we are able to identify as something we are doing incorrectly by not meeting one of his needs.

Luckily, Vinnie isn't an aggressive dog by nature, but he does get bored which could lead to problems, so even when it's time for a treat we try to challenge him as much as possible with a stuffed Kong or bone that he has to think about while he eats. I love my dog and he deserves the best life he can possibly have, and despite the "flaws" that I have which are projected onto him, I know that deep down I am doing a good job and that my girlfriend and I have a good dog that loves, appreciates and respects us as his pack leaders. Our pack isn't as large or tight knit as Mr. Millans', and Vinnie is no Daddy, Junior or Mr. President, but he is my best non-human friend and after having him more than a year now I can't imagine my life without him. Thankfully he is in perfect health, has a fantastic temperament and there are very few things we have to actively work to correct, but that doesn't make it any easier.

I wish more owners would take the time to not just watch Cesar work his magic, but to take the heart the example he sets and use that "magic" to their benefit. There is nothing better than a well-behaved, well-balanced dog to give you that unconditional love and respect that so many of us crave, but don't receive from the people in our lives, and those of us that are lucky enough have it both ways (like me, sorry, world) it's a blessing that can't be denied.



The more I think of the times Inkie stole my shoes the more I have to come to terms with the fact that it was all my fault from the very beginning, because I never corrected her (neither did her owners, mind you) or even made an attempt to stop her from dominating me; which is what she was doing. It took a tiny, little, epileptic dog to get her off my case and subsequently position himself as the leader of the Jimbolaya pack. As time went on Inkie, Alex and I spent a lot more time together trekking through the woods, playing in the snow, walking the trails near my house and, basically, doing what young boys and dogs do. When the three of us were together I'd always come home with a few scrapes here or there from getting stuck by a pricker bush and Alex would be covered in mud and burrs and Inkie would trot home happy, hungry and exhausted, but things do change.

I was growing up and growing away from Alex as I became more interested in talking to my friends than hanging out with my dog, and Inkie, sadly was getting flat out neglected by her owners who just didn't have the time or patience to take care of her, and, I suspect, didn't want a dog in the first. It wasn't long before Inkie became the "neighborhood dog" that depended on the kindness of her neighbors and their dogs to give her the life support she desperately needed, and Alex played a huge part in that. He would help her find mice in the fields and would run and play with her when she was out and about with us, and when it came time for Alex to come inside and sleep for the night, he always did so nearby the door so he could listen for his friend; on more than one occasion I woke up to see Alex sleeping on his bed in the mudroom of our house while Inkie slept pressed against the door on our deck directly opposite of him. It was heart warming and touching and nobody seemed to mind, but things change.

Alex's epilepsy became too much for my family to handle after one afternoon when he tumbled down the stairs to our basement and very easily could have broken several bones or worse, luckily my sister's friend's father was a vet who made an emergency stop at our house in a matter of minutes and helped us right the ship. My mother had the unfortunate job of spending the most time with Alex, feeding him, grooming him and the like and just couldn't take the added stress and worry as his condition became an issue, so she found a family willing to take him in and, with very little protest from me, handed him over on a cloudy Friday afternoon while I was at a friend's home playing football. She told me, when I got home, "that no boy should see his dog being given away," and that was that.

The next morning, patrolling the grounds by the deck in our backyard was Inkie looking for her buddy to come out and play as they had done so many times before over the years. She waited and waited, pacing back and forth the entire time until I came out of the house to say hello and let her know the bad news. She was sitting down as I approached barely able to contain her excitement, her tail wagging happily. I knelt down in front of her, patted her head and with tears starting up in my eyes I tried my best to tell her that her friend had left and wouldn't be coming back, but the words didn't mean much. My energy told her everything she needed to know. The two of us sat there for a time before she trotted off alone.

The Hyena Laughs Last

I'm not a big Captain America fan and I never have been. It's not that I don't understand the impact he's had in the comic book world since his inception in 1941, nor am I dumb enough to even try and understate his role in creating the greatest super hero team of all time (The Avengers); it's just that, as far as milquetoast, one-note super heroes go, Captain America is at the top of my list, right ahead of Superman and The Flash. I mean, I grew up in the 1980s and early 90's when Frank Miller, Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Jon Romita and a slew of other up and coming comic book artists and writers were changing the game so completely as to make some heroes (like Batman) unrecognizable to past generations, and I loved it. So, when Cappy decided to stay on the straight and narrow and his image never really changed from that of the "perfect All-America hero" I couldn't really get behind it. Not even when Nomad (a hero created as an alternate disguise/more badass version of Captain America's Steve Rogers) started to gain in popularity could I find myself lining up with the legions of Captain America supporters across the world. He was just too damned boring by my standards and not conflicted enough to interest my prepubescent, angst riddled mind.

I was a huge proponent of the anti-hero when I was approaching puberty, and I largely suspect that had a lot to do with my raging hormones and the torment that came with being the tallest kid in the entire school and my inner desire to seek revenge on my nemesis, Tommy Jacobs, for ruthlessly teasing me from first grade all the way until fifth grade when I finally realized I could use my then immense stature to physically pummel the living sh_t out of him whenever I felt it would be necessary; not that I did, of course, I was too shy and too scared of the repercussions to ever start a fight with him, but I did get my "mean stare" and "imposing stance" down so well that I never got bothered again. It was one of those rare childhood moments when, through the fog of youth, you're able to say with some certainty that you've figured something out, and I had finally come to grips with my freakishly large size that had plagued me, literally, since kindergarten. All because of my obsession with comic books, and my love for characters like Wolverine, Batman, The Punisher and, oddly, Spider-Man.

In my mind I could take over the identity of my favorite heroes to serve whatever purpose needed serving at the time. If I was in a tense situation that needed a joke to break the atmosphere a little, I would immediately pull out one of Spider-Man's patented zingers. If I needed to look brooding and intimidating to fend off a coming round of insults from the omnipresent bullies of the schoolyard I would, naturally, take on the contemplative craziness of Batman and give them "the look" as a way of saying (without fighting) "back off, not today, gentleman, Jimbolaya's got other things on his mind." For the rare occasion when physicality was unavoidable, I would, without fail go into full on Wolverine berserker mode so convincingly that nary a punch would be thrown before my rivals would run away awash in uncontrollable terror. It was the best of times and it was, as the saying goes, the worst of times, because I was completely unaware of reality as you know it. I was so wrapped up in my own fantasy realm that for almost an entire school year I forgot who I was 90% of the time and acted, as best as I could, like one hero or another without ever acting heroically.

It wouldn't be until the summer between fifth and sixth grade that I realized for all my mimicry and all my posturing I was, in fact, not a hero at all because I failed to protect one single innocent person from coming into harm's way, so I made it that summer's mission to be "the good guy" to my rural neighborhoods stable of "jerks" and "bullies" and "guys I just didn't like because they had Super Nintendo and I really wanted it at the time." Still, because I was so caught up in the world of anti-heroes that traipsed the line of good and bad to serve their own means, I had no clue how a true hero would act. [Note: Spider-Man is, in fact, a real hero, but to me he represented the space between "just having fun with it" and "taking it too seriously" that I needed in order to see the whole brevity angle of heroing.] So, in order to realize my true potential I went back to my local comic book dispensary and hunted down the not so well concealed morality tales of past issues of Superman and Captain America. It was there, cleverly concealed in the back issue rack of the store I lived in for weekends at a time, that I came to understand the true nature of heroism as told by the golden era comic book craftsmen.

In those old pages I learned there was, at one point in time, a very definitive standard of "right" and "wrong" which I hadn't been able to come to grips with leafing through the pages of the modern era heroes who "lived by their own set of rules" in order to save people from themselves. I was both thrilled and dismayed by the DC Comics, "golden age" Superman and his Marvel Universe counterpart Captain America, because I saw in them the archetypal protectors of goodness, justice and (good grief) the "American way" that was largely absent from the books of the heroes I followed so closely at the time. It was a hard type of lesson, one that I wasn't eager to accept, and one that would ultimately lead me down a much more confusing path of enlightenment than I had hoped for.

Captain America was created during the height of World War II as a way to rally the common man against the Nazi hordes that were trying to take over the world, and Superman was brought about in a much similar way; except good ol' Supes was (originally) created to fight crime on a much less global scale (fun fact: Superman couldn't fly in his earliest form, he could jump about a quarter of a mile, though; which is still pretty awesome) and would go after corrupt political bosses, the mafia or small time, recurring crooks that were plaguing the American psyche of the day. This speaks more to the mindset of the masses that needed a fictional hero to remind them of the work that needs to be done to stop evil in it's tracks; which is why the original incarnation of Superman was far less powerful than his present self, and Captain America was a soldier who was seen as unfit for military service, but then allowed to participate in the "super soldier" program that granted him his "powers," so to speak. They were the embodiments of ordinary people doing things far beyond their own capabilities. Still, to my mind at the time, they were painfully boring examples of a bygone era that didn't suit the current atmosphere and needed to be ramped up in order to be affective. Hence in the 80's both characters saw themselves becoming darker, more ruthless versions of their past selves while still retaining their impossible to live up to code of morality that had governed over their heroism for decades. Once I made my way into the then modern era of Superman and Captain America (pushing past the overly comedic undertones of the late 60's and 70's, because that sh_t was just terrible) I started to gain a modicum of respect for the two heroes I'd made a concerted effort to blatantly ignore. I felt a rewarding sense of self empowerment as I detailed my own moral code that would help guide me during my summer of heroism. I remember it extremely well, it went like this:

1- I will, under no circumstance, willfully harm someone if it can be helped.
2- Using weapons is a cheat, and has to be avoided.
3- Stop what you can, and know when to call for help.
4- You can't be everywhere at once, so pick your battles.
5- Hide your identity as much as you can. Work under the cover of night.

It was a simple, five-point bullet list of my meager understanding of what it takes to really be a hero. So, with only a few weeks ahead of me before my annual trek to sleep over summer camp, I decided I would spend every waking moment getting in shape, creating an origin story and figuring out what to call myself. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that as always summer camp would be riddled with bullies without parental supervision and that the camp counselors were powerless to stop them because they were too busy counseling campers about how to make the best boondoggle bracelet possible and not teaching them right from wrong; which I understood to be my duty at the time. I bought several books about Karate that I would read through and practice daily. I did push-ups and sit-ups and played basketball with the big kids to toughen me up. I would ask my next door neighbor and best friend at the time, John, to act like one super villain or another and hide out in the woods behind our homes so I could hunt him down and dispense justice as I saw fit. Unfortunately, this usually involved his younger brother Robbie in some terrible way that until this very moment I haven't felt bad about. (Robbie, if you're out there, sorry about that time John-Boy hid you in the bales of hay in your barn for an afternoon when you were a little boy, that was my idea, and that one time he tied you up in our "fort" when it was raining, that was my idea too.) I felt, on the night before my trip to sleep-away camp, that I was more than ready to take on all comers that fought for the forces of evil, and that there was no way I wouldn't be as successful, if not more successful than all my favorite heroes had ever been.

As for my origin story, I decided to call myself "The Hyena" ( I didn't know it was the name of a villain in the DC Universe at the time) after John told me my laugh was "loud and crazy like a Hyena's," and so it went from there. My back-story went like this: my biological mother died during childbirth leaving me in the care of my eccentric South African father who, when I was 3-months old, could no longer handle the emotional pain of my existence, and decided taking care of me reminded him too much of his lost love and left me for dead in the African wilderness at which point I was taken in by a pack of wild Hyenas. After a time I was imbued with the spirit of the Hyena Demon that roamed the plains nightly, feeding on the evil of the land and was granted special powers that gave me a heightened sense of smell, hearing, stronger bones, muscles and eyesight. Later, I had a vision that told me of my true nature to be the ultimate protector of those that need my protecting, the innocents of the world, and so the legend of "The Hyena" was born. Yes, that's terrible, but for a 12 year old boy it's pretty good, right?

The night before my trip to sleep-away camp I slipped my costume into my duffel bag while my mother wasn't looking. It consisted of black sweatpants and a black sweatshirt with no mask, because after all my tinkering I decided that, since I would be working at night, a mask would only limit my ability to see what was going on, and since I was a good guy, hiding my face seemed foolish. I spent the entire hour and a half long car ride to camp thinking of all the crime I would stop and all the wonderful adventures I'd find myself taking part in and how, by the time the two weeks were over, the campers and counselors would be pleading with me to stay and help them. I thought of catchphrases I could shout out at opportune times like "The Hyena Laughs Last" and "You've been spotted, by the Hyena!" I wondered how Spider-Man had the wherewithal to inject his zingers in the middle of a brawl, but thought it would be better not to plan that out ahead of time, since you never knew what you'd be up against.

And then we got to camp. I was signed in and given my cabin assignment with the usual rush and fake enthusiasm I was used to and, while the other campers were getting to know each other and finding their bunks, I was silently stalking the grounds looking for "the bad apples" that would "ruin the bunch." I was obsessed with making my presence know as soon as possible, but, as is the case with the heroes I idolized, I thought it best to wait until after dark to introduce my new self to the world at large. Unfortunately, I wasn't given that much time to settle in before the first fight broke out in my cabin, and true to form, "The Hyena" made his first, unmasked, uncostumed appearance.

I vividly remember the fight being between a lanky black child named Arthur and a small-ish, toe headed moppet named Brian who had the hottest temper I'd ever seen at the time. It all started after the parents left and the counselors were leaving us to get to know each other. Arthur, it turned out, didn't sleep so well in bunk beds as he had a fear of the top bunk falling on him, so there was one non-bunk bed in the cabin that Brian had already called for his own and Arthur was trying his best to settle the situation diplomatically, but unfortunately for him Brian was not the diplomatic sort and without much warning at all, threw a punch that landed square on Arthur's chin. Before I could let out a catchphrase they were on the ground flailing at each other. Like a pack of wolves the entirety of my bunkmates encircled the grappling duo with enthusiastic glee, egging them to keep up the fight and start really giving it to each other. I realized that I was far and away the largest boy in the cabin and that all my training would make this the easiest thing in the world for "The Hyena" to stop, so I trudged over with grim determination to settle the dispute by merely pulling the boys apart and holding them away from each other until they cooled down.

As I reached into the pile of arms, legs and hair with the intention of easily pulling both boys out one by one, the skirmish shifted violently into my own legs which sent me to the floor and, ultimately, made me an unwitting participant in the scrum itself. I was mortified as I took cover and tried desperately to avoid taking a punch to the face or stomach; which was all for naught as I, the supposed hero, took more punches to the face and stomach than I would have if I started the fight myself, all because I decided to get in the way of a brawl that wasn't mine to begin with. As I lay there in the fetal position, choking back tears I thought "this is not what 'The Hyena' would do," and so I started laughing hysterically and loudly amid the chaos of stray kicks and punches that were being thrown with reckless abandon. The pitch of my laughter reached manic heights and with all my strength I rose up from the bottom of the pile, still laughing crazily, and shrugged off the boys easily.

Laughing and reeling from the myriad fists and feet that had found their way to various points on my body I tried in vane to use my size to separate Arthur and Brian from each other, but with all the midget fury his body could muster Brian came at me as hard as he could and kicked me right smack dab in the nuts. I keeled over instantly, the laughing stopped, and I vomited profusely all over the floor of the cabin. To my chagrin, Arthur, the boy I was protecting, kicked me while I was down... twice, before my cabin's designated counselor came into the loony bin and, with nary more than a glance, managed to calm the room down and stop the fight. I was ushered off to the infirmary where I was given several ice packs and a cup of juice for my trouble. My parent's were called and told of what happened to which my mother, in all her wisdom, said simply of the news her son had it handed to him while trying to break up a fight, "good, that should teach him," and it did.

"The Hyena" died that day along with a lot of my pride and the new found sense of security I had cultivated over the past year or so while coming to grips with my overwhelming size (at the time). After that, I decided it would be best to leave the heroism to the comic books and never again interfere where I didn't belong. I got into a few more fights growing up that were largely unavoidable. I won some and I lost some, but never under the moniker of "The Hyena" ever again. Real heroes (like soldiers, policemen, etc.) it turns out, are incredibly hard to come by.

So Close, Yet So Far Away

Well, here we are, reader. Less than a month away from the premier of Lost and as I expected time has slowed to a crawl. It doesn't help that, starting on Sunday during another of the myriad snow storms Rochester has been plagued with over the past two weeks, the love of my life and I started to re-watch Season Five in an effort to jog our collective memories while getting seriously pumped up for the start of the sixth and final season of the best serialized television show on network television. This is one of those rare, TV geek moments that I've only experienced a few times: knowing that a show I've come to love so much is going to end once the next season is over. I dealt with it when The Sopranos stopped believin', I choked back rage fueled tears when Freaks and Geeks was prematurely canceled, and I cried, sadly and forlornly as my beloved Arrested Development was cut down in it's prime. But, at the same time, I'm legitimately stoked for the final season of Lost, if only because some of those lingering, unanswerable questions are (at the very least) going to be addressed if not outright explained. That, my friend, is the ultimate payoff for a show that, since 2004, has done more to confuse, enrage, annoy and entertain than any other "Big 3" network drama I can think of... ever.

Lost is, and always has been, about the characters and what they do when they are put in a certain situation - either of their own free will, or by some act of four-toed god like intervention - whether it is Sawyer's (Josh Holloway) internal battle over what to do when the man he's been seeking to confront his entire life is, almost literally, plopped down in front of him in the most unlikely place he could have imagined, or whether it's Kate's (Evangeline Lilly) less than thoughtful, but oh so right, decision to run as fast as she can when her past transgressions - on and off the island - start to chase her down. Lost is an incredible look into the human condition wrapped inside a science-fiction-philosophy that hasn't been so thoroughly explored since the earliest days of Star Trek, and even the mighty James Tiberius Kirk would be overwhelmed by all riddles the island forces its inhabitants to solve (Spock, on the other hand, would be just fine).

"Did that bird just say 'Hurley?' F_ck it, beam me up, Scotty."

As for myself, I've tried - way too often - to sift through the clues, the folklore and the mythology surrounding Lost and the only conclusion I've been able to come to is this: Dude. Yes, I go full Hurley (Jorge Garcia) whenever I try to sit down and figure out just exactly what the hell is happening, how it happened, where it started, who started it and how it's going to end, because there is (literally) too much happening for me to comprehend all at once, and I fully expect there to be numerous master level courses that pop up around universities the world over that delve into Lost with all the reckless abandon academia has to offer as the full cultural impact of the show will be revealed, sadly, when it's all said and done. Lost is an important and necessary television show in this day and age when far too many people have far too many answers readily available at the push of a button. Where Mad Men is a constant, sullen reminder of the way things "used to be," Lost is that rare show that has the audacity to show it's viewers the way things "aught to be." It's not Walden 2 by any means, and it doesn't dare to imagine itself as a utopia of any sort, but because it dives into the deep end of human relationships and couples it with action, mystery and the all encompassing "science versus faith" debate that rages on in the subtext of every pivotal scene of the show, and does so without abject bias one way or the other, Lost has managed to give us all the gift of contemplation.

We, the viewer, are forced to pay attention and we are forced to (shudder) think for ourselves. That doesn't happen very often anymore. With shows like The Hills and the train wreck that is Jersey Shore becoming ever more popular with not just the youth of current culture, but the adults as well, Lost has veered violently in the other direction. Sure, it has everything any fan of television would find interesting (action, adventure, drama, romance, a smoke monster and Hurley), but that's just on the ground level; which isn't to say you can't get fully engrossed in Lost on a very simple plane, but it's so much better, and so much more entertaining when you actually pay attention, because you pick things up - often times subliminally - and you start to legitimately understand the direction of the show, what it's trying to get across to the audience and where it's headed.

Why does Benjamin Linus (Michael Emerson) do the things he does? Is he just a man living in a fog of ambiguous morality that only acts to serve himself and his desires? Or, is Ben more than that? Is he truly evil, or is he one the good guys? The answer is just as much of a riddle as the character himself, and I don't see how it's possible to enjoy the show the way it's meant to be enjoyed if you don't constantly ask yourself these questions while pondering the impossible to come by solution. The same can be said of any of Lost's main characters, and even it's relatively minor characters are mired by questionable actions and shady intent. The "hero" of the show, Jack Shephard (Matthew Fox) has had his ups and downs and, at times, acted like a petulant little child when he hasn't gotten his way, taken to the bottle and prescription narcotics as a means of coping with his insecurities and sometimes gone off in the wrong direction without ever taking the time to think about it. That's his challenge as a character. When the "hero" is supposed to be a Hero, will he live up to that moniker or will he slink away into some Benzedrine dream, never to be seen or heard from again? Of course, as of the end of season 5, we all know where Jack's loyalties lie and it's not really surprising considering his development. Jack will always be Jack, for better or worse he thinks of himself as the savior of the people on the island he feels duty bound to protect. It's a pro and a con, a positive and a negative, and it is exactly what makes Lost as engrossing an experience as it is. We, the audience, never really know what's happening and we are constantly guessing who is "good" and who is "bad" when we should really be thinking "what's next?"

I remember, a long time ago, reading that the joy of a mystery isn't in the solving but, rather, in the surprise. I know there can be endless amounts of fun trying to figure things out when it comes to Lost, because that's the way the show is designed. It's meant to confuse, annoy and entertain all at the same time, and it does so with such conviction and style that sometimes the impact takes days or weeks to settle in; which is why it must be viewed so often and paid attention to so carefully. As much as I wish I had a Holmesian mind that could detect, deduce and define even the most pithy piece of evidence, I'm glad that I don't, because if I could figure out how Lost was going to end without the benefit of taking the ride, the show in and of itself would cease to be as important as it is and all the wonderful thrills and the hammer to the back of the head like jolts that accompany all of the "big reveals" that have happened in the past and the ones coming on the horizon would have little to no effect, and Lost would be just another TV show. Thankfully, that's not the case. Thankfully I've resigned myself to "just let it go, man" when it comes to figuring out the labyrinthine twists and turns of the plot, and the true nature of the individual characters. I don't want to ruin the last season, not even by mistake, and if a co-worker or friend decides to let slip a spoiler, I will pummel them with all my nerd-rage fueled might!

Just like on the show, my perception of time has become relative to my position on the grid. With Winter rearing it's ugly head in the general direction of my well being, I'm forced to stay indoors and while away the hours wondering "what's next" and "where do we go from here?" As much as I'm enjoying re-watching season 5 of Lost, I'm getting impatient and I'm getting hungry to move forward towards the endgame that is going to (I expect) play out wonderfully over the next few months, and this has made my perception of time slow to a crawl. The anticipation, the quixotic nature of my own mental capacity and my desire to be shocked and awed is starting to take it's toll. I know it's just a TV show, and I'm aware that my pining is something bordering on "too geeky to function properly in society," but I don't really care. 2010 is going to be about embracing your inner nerd, it's going to be about loving the things you love openly and often, and Lost is one of those things. As much as it's going to hurt to see it go, I can't wait to find out what's going to happen.

*A brief note from the author to the reader*
Please, please, please do not spoil anything related to Lost for me as the final season unravels. I won't be reading ahead on any websites that I normally check for updates, and I won't be diving into lostpedia.org like I have in the past to play catch-up when something escapes my understanding. I will not respond with grace, dignity or aplomb and will most like spaz out pretty badly. Take, for example, this line from 30 Rock's Jenna Maroney (Jane Krakowski) which was supposed to be a joke, "I met JJ Abrams once, and I don't know what this means, but he said that the island was just Hurley's dream." I know that was supposed to be funny, but my reaction was not. I was pissed. My jaw dropped and I gasped aloud as I thought of ways to punish Jenna for letting slip something so spoiltastic as that. So, please be kind and don't ruin the surprise. Just, like, you know, let it go, man.