That dog

Jon Stewart brought me to tears last night. It wasn't because he was talking about some atrocity happening in the world, a celebrity who died tragically too young, or recounting that scene from Forest Gump where Forest asks Jenny if his son is smart or if he's like him.

Nope. Jon Stewart brought me to tears talking about his dog, Dipper, who he'd lost the day before taping last night's Daily Show. As you can see in the video, he can barely get through telling us about how he met Dipper, how he came to be his dog and how much he meant to him and his family.

For Stewart, Dipper was that dog.

Anyone who's ever had a dog, whether they admit it or not, on some level understands the deal they're making from the start—that they're going to be with us for far too short a time, during which they'll steal your heart and never, ever give it back.

And anyone who's lost a dog understands how deep the grief runs. I've been through it with dogs I've loved too many times. Even now, they're always in my orbit, and my life. My home is emptier without them, and my life is immeasurably better in every way for them having been here.

Except for the shedding. I could do without the shedding.

In the clip, Stewart wishes we all find that dog. For me, it was Max. An actual German long-hair German Shepherd, Max was the world's greatest dog. Literally not a day goes by I don't miss him.

Maybe that's because his ashes are still sitting on mantle. Who's to say?

It's been said before but I'm going to say it again: with their unconditional love, unlimited joy and undeniable loyalty, we don't deserve dogs. We just don't.

Anyway, tonight I hope Dipper is playing hard with his new best friend Max.

And like Jon Stewart, my wish for you is that you're lucky enough and blessed enough in your life to find that dog.

Breaking the code

Hard as it is to believe, there are actually many skills and talents I simply don’t have, or have been unable to master.

I can’t juggle.

I dance like everyone’s looking.

My artistic abilities are limited to drawing crooked straight lines.

I play the guitar badly, but at least it’s only three chords.

And when I sing, the dogs howl (in pain) at the moon.

But for all those things I can’t do, I can do one thing better than just about anyone you know: load a dishwasher.

In what can only be described as a freakishly Rain Man-esque talent, I can pack more into a dishwasher than you or my family would think possible. When someone else tries their dishpan hands at it, there’s usually still a pile of dirty dishes left in our fabulous, deep farmer sink we installed during the year of the remodel. I think because the sink is so deep, people who shall not be named feel it’s okay to leave a lot of dishes in there because at a casual glance, they’re out of view.

Anyway, then I have to go to the kitchen, rearrange the dishes in the dishwasher and fill up all that newfound space with the dishes in the sink.

The other skill I have is I know when dishes in the washer are dirty and when they’re clean. Apparently other members of my household do not possess the laser focus and McGyver-like resourcefulness that would let them suss that out.

After all, it would involve opening the dishwasher door and looking in. What are we, detectives?

So my son, in between his Hollywood moving and shaking, and wheelin’ and dealin’, came up with a code. It involves a magnet, with a design by Mike Mitchell (also a Mondo artist), that used to be on the trunk lid of his car before he sold it to Carmax.

The hand magnet takes its place of honor along with my Springsteen On Broadway magnet, and my wife's "I am Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." magnet.

The code is elegant in its simplicity: thumbs up for clean dishes, thumbs down for dirty dishes. And so far it's working like a charm.

The problem still remains that, for some reason, because I have this gift everyone expects me to do my precision loading of the dishwasher every night—even if I didn't participate in any way in dirtying the dishes. So I've developed a simple, easy to understand code of my own to let them know when I will and won't be their nightly clean up crew.

All I need to use it is a magnet with a different finger.

Here's the scoop

If you know anything about me, and if you don’t by now then maybe our season is just over, you know I own two fabulous dogs.

Ace is our German Shepherd rescue. We think he was two-years old when we got him, and he had the unenviable job of following our first German Shepherd Max, the world’s greatest dog (who you can read about in the stunning book of dog stories Gone Dogs, the perfect gift for that special dog-loving someone). However Ace has risen to the occasion swimmingly. He is an awesome guy with a completely unhealthy attachment to my wife. Look at her the wrong way. Go on, I dare ya.

Then there’s Lucy. We like to refer to her as an American Sock terrier. My daughter’s friend’s dog had puppies, and Lucy was one of them. She just came home with my wife and daughter one day. I didn’t want to love her, but here we are (talking about Lucy, not the wife and daughter).

Anyway, if you happen to have the good fortune of owning a dog, you already know there are so many great things about it.

The unconditional love.

The excitement no one else in your life will ever have for you when you return from being gone ten minutes.

The tail-wagging faster than windshield wipers set on high.

The warmth and comfort laying next to them on the floor, or if you’re like us, the bed.

The deep-sleep twitching that defies the boundaries of sweetness.

But for all those great things about being a dog parent, there are some realities of dog ownership we don’t discuss often (even though I’ve mentioned them before here and here).

In a word: poop. With big dogs come big poops. For the longest time, because I bought it when Max was the world's cutest puppy, the only thing I had was a small scoop to clean up the yard after my big dog.

It was frustrating, time consuming and extremely unpleasant. Just like my high school girlfriend.

Stay with me. It may not seem like it, but I’ll land the plane in a minute. Sometimes, even though the obvious answer is right in front of me I just don’t see it. I remember one time I was having lunch with a co-worker at Carl’s Jr. right after the BBQ Chicken Club sandwich came out. I told her, “This would be a great sandwich if it didn’t have that flavorless bacon.” To which she replied, “Take the bacon off.”

Like I said, slow on the uptake.

Here’s what that has to do with dog poop. We were at our fabulous friend Joan’s house one day. Joan had two or three large dogs, and at one point she went to clean up after them. I noticed she was using a super-sized poop scooper, and was easily making short work of the souvenirs her pups had left. The clouds parted, the angel choir sang and a little voice in my big head said, “Don’t you feel stupid now Einstein.”

Later that very same day, I became the proud owner of the large poop-removal device you see here: the easy-grip, rubber-fitted wood handle, the oversized tray, the convenient clasp that keeps the two together when not in use.

It’s definitely made the chore much more, not fun, but less unpleasant. There’s no struggle to make things fit. I’m able to collect more at once. And it’s far less stressful and time-consuming than it used to be.

No snappy end line today—poop is funny enough. But all this talk of it does remind me of the old joke: There's this guy who ran off to join the circus. The job he got was walking behind the elephants, scooping up their droppings. When his friend told him he should quit, and asked him how he could do such an awful, disgusting job the guy said, "What? And give up show business?"

Everybody feng shui tonight

I was sitting with my work roommates today and for some reason, perhaps to avoid work, or maybe to avoid work, we got to discussing the Chinese pseudoscience of feng shui.

According to Wikipedia (if you can't believe them who can you believe?) feng shui "claims to use energy forces to harmonize individuals with their surrounding environment."

Whatever.

But I suppose since I was the one who started this discussion, I should probably see it through. So let's unpack this. Or at least rearrange it.

Years ago on the late great show Penn & Teller's Bullshit, they did an episode on feng shui (and by the way, feng shui has the same number of letters as bullshit—coincidence? I think not). They recruited several different feng shui "experts" and had them all work on the same room, and rearrange the same furniture to achieve maximum harmony with the environment. What's so amazing is each of them arranged the room in the exact same way, proving feng shui is real and they all knew exactly what they were doing and talking about.

I'm just funnin' ya. They were quacks, and monumentally full of, well, you know the name of the show.

Here's the thing: I'm rarely able to harmonize with anything, much less my environment. My energy flow, such as it is, gets interrupted on an hourly basis. And moving the bed out from under a window, making sure it's not directly across from a door or having it face east isn't going to change that.

In the example of feng shui you see above, apparently placing the bed over the stove is not a good idea. I'd add especially if you have a one-story house. But I think if you're sleeping on another floor, the stove is off, and the house isn't on fire, you'll be able to harmonize with your pillow just fine.

Feng shui "experts" always remind me of dog whisperers—those people who claim they can talk to dogs and tell you what they're thinking and feeling. If you've ever hired one, I can answer that for you.

You're thinking you have too much money and feeling like throwing some of it away.

At any rate, under the heading of don't knock it until you've tried it, I might just move my favorite chair closer to the patio window to bask in the morning light, align my chí and absorb all the energy of a new day filled with potential and possibilities to see how well I'm able to harmonize with my environment.

Plus I can see the TV better from there.

Things that annoy me: Volume 1

You know, if the world worked the way I wanted it to I wouldn’t have anything to write about in this post. Of course, after reading it you might still think I don’t, but just hold your water and reserve judgement.

I know everyone could pump out a list of things that annoy them. But, as you should already know by now, I’m an only child. So it’s a given the world revolves around moi. Which means my list of annoyances is far more important than yours.

I’m glad we got that settled.

NOT UNLOADING THE WASHER

Frustration comes in many forms. One of them is a washer loaded with wet clothes that aren’t mine. I suppose there's an argument to be made for leaving them in there all day. After all, the delicate cotton and mixed blend fabrics have just been through a traumatic event, what with that extended spin cycle and all. They're probably still in shock.

I also understand the reluctance and hesitation in moving wet, overflowing, slightly moldy smelling clothes. It takes an almost Herculean effort to place them in a dryer that's an impossible Fourteen. Inches. Away.

I’ve always said the great thing about laundry is I can do it while I'm doing something else. It's just I don’t want the something else to be moving your clothes to the dryer.

And no, I have no idea where that favorite shirt of yours went—why do you ask?

THE DOG NOT LISTENING

We have two incredibly smart, cute dogs at home. Because one of them is an energetic German Shepherd, we wanted to make sure he was well trained. We didn't want a dog that big and powerful out of control and not listening to us.

That’s the kid's job.

So when we got him from Westside German Shepherd Rescue, every weekend for what seemed like forever, we loaded him and his little friend in the back of the SUV and carted him out to the same trainer in Corona where we’d trained our first GSD.

I’m happy to say after all those weeks of training, fighting the hordes of traffic on the 91 East and spending lots of money to "work with the experts," he has been thoroughly, selectively trained. That is to say he listens when he wants to and doesn’t when he doesn’t.

This is a picture of him after I said "Heel."

Still, when he’s backlit in the front window, and someone is outside thinking about making a move, it’s the visual that says, “Maybe the next house.” So we’re willing to cut him some slack.

THINGS ON THE FLOOR

There's tripping the light fantastic. Then there's just tripping.

It's not bad enough I have to navigate area rugs everywhere that are lying in wait for me. They look innocent enough, but their rug pad is just a ruse—they slip and slide around like Crocs on a freshly watered lawn.

If rugs were the only thing, then at least I'd know the enemy. But, like magic, other things appear to create my own personal obstacle course at all hours of the day and night.

Backpacks. Shoes. Dogs. Shoes. Boxes. Shoes.

On the bright side, it is cutting down on my 2AM refrigerator runs.

Since this is only Volume 1, you know there'll be more installments to look forward to. You might even be inspired to make your own list of things that annoy you.

I'm guessing my list is the first thing on your list.

Big dog

If you follow my posts with any regularity – and if you do, a library card would be much more rewarding - you know I’ve written many times about my German Shepherd Max, the World’s Greatest dog.

Max is 90 lbs. He’s a big dog, but I don’t see him that way. It’s because I see him every day, and when I’m rolling around on the floor playing with him, and he’s acting like a puppy (albeit a puppy who could rip my face off with those teeth) I forget he’s a big dog.

But there are occasional reminders.

Like when the pizza delivery guy comes to the door, looks down and sees me holding him by the collar, then jumps back four feet off our front steps. Or when people see me walking him, and they cross the street to give him a wide berth and go around him.

I have to say even though Max is a big dog, he’s the perfect size for me. He’s eleven years old – beautiful, healthy, playful, protective and enjoys a good pizza (delivery person) every now and again. I wouldn't want to bring a dog bigger than he is into the family. Max has been the Alpha dog his whole life, and he's not about to surrender the title now.

I’ve always liked big dogs. Sturdy, hearty, sweet, protective companions I can send with my kids to the liquor store at midnight. ”Daddy needs a beer. Take the dog.”

I’ve never understood the appeal of small dogs. And even if I did, I’ll never understand the reason for embarrassing them and making them feel even smaller by using them as accessories and carrying them in a purse, or a baby Bjorn.

For those of you counting, there were four "them"s in that last sentence.

We have a word for small dogs in my house. They're called “appetizers.”

If it were up to me, and we had the room (and a shovel for cleaning up the back yard), I’d go even bigger. I’d love an Irish Wolfhound. The problem for me isn’t their size, but the fact they only live about six years. They’re heartbreak dogs because they’re in your life and then, just as they've completely staked their claim on your heart, they’re gone.

Another breed I wouldn't mind owning is a Leonburger. Big and lion-like, these gentle giants are sweet tempered and great with everything: kids, other dogs and even cats. Not so nice to strangers though, which works just fine for me.

The problem with the Leonburger - besides the endless burger jokes all the time - "Would you like onions on that?" - is they’re drool puppies. So I'd need someone full-time with a mop, bucket and a lot of patience to follow him around the house and clean up the puddles.

I say I'd need someone because I'm not going to do it.

Now if you'll excuse me, the pizza I ordered is here. Max and I have to answer the door.

Home alone. The sequel. Sorta. Not really.

Since this past Thursday night, I've been on my own. The family's been out of town, and it's just been me, the dogs and the goldfish. The goldfish was still alive last time I looked, although frankly, I haven't looked in a while.

Naturally, being alone for a few days is perfect fodder for a blogpost. Just like it was the first time I wrote about it.

So rather than write an entirely new post about the same subject, tonight the editorial staff at Rotation and Balance is going to do something they very rarely do. Give you an encore presentation of a post written awhile ago.

You could think of this as an opportunity to reevaluate the subject matter. Or to once again enjoy the humorous stylings. Some of you might get a kick out of a second chance to laugh at the visuals.

Then again I suppose there are always a cynical few among you who'd say I'm just too lazy to come up with something new late on a Saturday night. I'm sure people with that mindset would say I'm taking the easy way out.

To those people, I have only one thing to say: Who am I to argue.

Please to enjoy. Again.

This weekend is going to be awesome. It’s the kind of weekend a guy who’s been married as long as I have with two kids dreams about. And it doesn’t happen very often.

This weekend, the wife and daughter are away at a mother/daughter retreat they go to every year. My son, a student-council vice-president, is away on a student council overnight planning session/beach party. That can only mean one thing.

Saturday night belongs to me, and me alone. (rolling hands together) Muahhhhhh!

Here's how this weekend goes in my rich fantasy life. Since I have the place to myself, I decide to invite over 1500 of my closest friends for a wild, drunken, too-loud music, cigarette burns on the furniture, wine and beer stains on the carpet, cops have to be called kind of party. For reasons best left unsaid, there are hoists and pulleys, whipped cream and garden hoses involved. It goes until sun up.

Now here's how this weekend usually goes in my real life.

I have to make the important decision about dinner. It usually comes down to In-N-Out or Five Guys. I'm thinking this might be a Five Guys kind of Saturday. Then once I'm home, I catch up with the two nights of America's Got Talent and a week's worth of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report that have been sitting on the dvr. I'll finish my Gillian Flynn book. I'll somehow find the energy to get up off the couch and walk and feed Max, world’s greatest dog. Once that's done, I'm back on the couch and asleep by 9, a 48 Hours Mystery blaring in the background (Spoiler: the boyfriend did it).

I hope the family doesn't wake me when they come back. I'll need the rest after the weekend I'm going to have.

Bad advice

So the wife and I are at a dog show a few years ago, looking around, deciding what breeds we might be interested in. Obviously this was before we knew how awesome German Shepherds are.

Since we're both fans of the larger breeds, we found ourselves talking to this short, extremely buff guy who bred Mastiffs. Now, large is an understatement when it comes to describing the Mastiff. They're gentle giants, and the one he happened to be holding on a thin show leash weighed 240 lbs. If the Mastiff had stood up on his rear legs, with his front paws on the guy's shoulders, the dog would've towered over him.

He asked me if I'd like to hold onto the leash and I took it. Then he started to walk away from us. At that point, the dog decided to follow his owner. I pulled back on the leash with almost all my strength, and that's when I saw the thought bubble appear over the dog's head. I believe it said, "Weak, puny man. Do you really think you can control me?"

Which if I'm not mistaken is also what my high school girlfriend told me. BAM! I'll be here all week.

Anyway, the dog didn't skip a step or break a sweat in dragging me back over to his owner.

I asked the breeder when the last time was that he locked a door at his house. He said, "Well, we have nine of the boys in the house. I don't think I've locked a door in twenty-five years. Don't even have a car alarm on the van. When the Mrs. has to go to the store, she always just takes one of the boys with her."

Then, just out of curiosity, I asked him how he'd get the dog to let go if he was biting someone. And I think it's safe to say I got an answer I never would've expected.

He pulled an unsharpened #2 Ticonderoga pencil I hadn't noticed before out of his pocket, and he said, "If he's biting someone, you just take one of these, lift up his tail and put it up his butt. That'll get his attention."

Well, yeah.

I've done a lot of things I never thought I'd do in my life. We had a cat that I had to give subcutaneous IV fluids to every day of her life for a kidney disease. Then, as she got older and more infirm, I actually had to give her daily enemas because she was constipated.

Clearly I'm not skittish about caring for my animals.

But I'm here to tell you, of all the things I never need to experience, I'm pretty sure it's being the guy sticking a pencil up the butt of a 240 lb. Mastiff who's already pissed off.

For a lot of reasons, the wife and I wound up not getting a Mastiff. I'm sure they're great, loyal, sweet dogs. But then most dogs are.

Right up until you reach for the pencil.

Doesn't make scents

As any dog owner will tell you, the picture to the left is of an unfortunate necessity if you're ever planning on taking Rags out of the house.

I refer of course to poop bags.

Now, this isn't the first time I've mentioned poop bags. I also alluded to them in this post.

But it's time to, um, dig deep and discuss them in more detail.

If you know anything about me - and really, can anyone know anything about anyone? - you know I'm not a perfume-y kind of guy. I use unscented deodorant. My clothes are washed in unscented Tide detergent. And I don't ever wear men's cologne, at least not since Calvin Klein One went to $69 an ounce (Purity. Unity. Sensuality.).

But I believe if there's one thing that should be strongly scented, it's poop bags. Granted, no matter what bag you use it's a losing battle. Even the unscented bags wind up with a scent, although it's definitely not the scent of choice. And the scented ones always wind up giving up the fight because they aren't scented enough to completely cover the scent they need to.

But at least they try. I file it - figuratively - under "better than nothing."

We can put a man on the moon, the government can listen to every call ever made and I can turn a Zip Lock bag upside down and nothing spills out. Is it too much to ask for a poop bag to completely mask the unpleasant fragrance of a healthy diet and a job well done?

It's my hope somewhere scientists are working on this.

And without getting too detailed, while they're at it, if they could look into shaping the bags like gloves it would make doing our, um, duty as owners a lot easier.