Category: Animals

Pet peeves

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

Between the cat eating the house plants then vomiting greenery all over the place and the dog expressing his anal glands by scooting his butthole across the cream-colored carpet, the animals are just asking for a one-way trip to the pound. 

I jest, but it’s true that pets is only one letter away from pests. Love them as I do, these free-roaming (if housebound) creatures are high-maintenance, not quite like human children, god forbid, but demanding and nerve-wracking nonetheless.

Oh, what’s this adorable chunk of indescribable disgustingness? Just another hairball upchucked from my favorite feline. Thanks, Tiger Lily, you charmer!

Any responsible owner of pets knows the aggravation of keeping animals. That’s why I’ve owned so many pet rats over the years — low-maintenance while being cleaner than cats and smarter than dogs. That’s a truism that happens to hold water. And the rodents may just be funnier than cats and dogs, and more affectionate to boot. Plus they have a life-span a little longer than the common house fly, which actually drop-kicks your heart.

Rats always like to play and snuffle around. They are great explorers, endlessly curious and insatiably social. They hoard. They drink beer. They dig in the plants, climb all over you, squeak during belly rubs and, yes, even giggle with joy. Then again, they nibble anything in their path, from electrical cords to your favorite book.

Pets aren’t perfect. People aren’t perfect. And while my girlfriend isn’t going to express her anal glands on my light-hued carpet, she might dog-ear the pages and break the binding of my favorite book. Infallibility — let the Pope bask in that rarefied delusion.

So as I write about these pet peeves, the dog goes ballistic over the arrival of the mail. Screeches and door scratches, head nearly exploding with the notion of territorial intrusion. The dog is bored. Let him fulfill a sense of purpose for 20 seconds. Though, thanks to the hyperactive scratching, the front door needs a fresh paint job.

The dog, Cubby, grumbles as he comes off his hissy-fit. He relaxes, peers out the window for more invaders, then curls up in a ball like a sowbug on the couch. (He’s dark gray, charcoal, and small. Like a sowbug.) The cat … who knows where she went. She vanishes like the Cheshire Cat, but leaving no toothy smile in her wake. How come cats rarely smile? Entitled, they are, seething with grave self-importance.

Last week the dog shat on the dining room rug, an impressive tower of leaning Lincoln Logs, a bonfire yet unlit. The cat barfed out something bile-colored — an intoxicating shade of yellow, beige and lime green — and I, ha ha, got to pick it all up. Rascals!

The price of pets is worth it. They cost time, money and exasperation. They get sick. The dog needs grooming. The cat tears up the carpet. Then there are the Sea-Monkeys, which live in a miniature saltwater tank. Let’s not get into the Sea-Monkeys.

Pets are gems. Strange animals strolling the halls, licking themselves obsessively, barking and meowing the call of the wild, oozing reciprocal love in our gorgeous, fantastically maddening peaceable kingdom. Sit, Cubby, sit. Thatta boy. 

The cat’s seething self-importance

Nature calls. Take a message.

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As I read about Chile — the country that curls like a tongue down the Pacific coast of South America — it seems more and more to be a platonic ideal for naturists, hikers and outdoorsies. Mountains, snow, rapids, ocean, flora, fauna, all doused in a magenta sunset glow that shouts once in a lifetime experiences — that’s what I see. Alpacas! Elephant seals! Avian abundance! Maybe a merman, or a yeti! The whole thing is almost mythological in its exotic, boot-trekking glories. Binoculars mandatory.

Here’s the thing: I’m not going to Chile to hike or ski or bird watch or scale anything that’s not human-made or shaped like stairs. Or, for that matter, anything that doesn’t have numbered buttons in a metal box with sliding doors. 

More than 12 minutes of hiking reduces me to a gasping heap of implacable boredom. Snow skiing I absolutely adore, but I haven’t done it in eons and I’m afraid at this late date I’d put on my skies and immediately crash into a tree, snap untold bones and forever reside in a wheelchair, speaking with a keyboard and a pencil between my teeth. 

During my Southern California childhood, I was a fiend for the forest, creeks, lakes, waterfalls, trails and, of course, the crashing chaos of the ocean and its silken beaches. We’d roll up our Toughskins and splash in pools looking for frogs and pollywogs, snakes and lizards. We always got poison ivy, always. Beyond the Santa Barbara area, we made Yosemite and Sequoia national parks paradises of youthful plunder. It was majestic.

Today, my idea of a jaunt in the wilderness is a day trip to the countryside — like a  winery. That sounds pitifully fuddy-duddy, but I counter that impression with my love of the ricketiest rollercoasters, the loudest Metallica, a good late-night tipple, hip sneakers and an innate aversion to Adele and Hootie and the Blowfish.

What I’m saying is that I have approximately zero nature planned for my approaching trip to Chile. For one, it will be winter when I go in June and I’m not packing boots or a beanie, and I am defiantly indifferent to spotting penguins in their natural habitat. A winery or three will be the gist of my wild country safari.

That’s not to say Chile’s outdoor offerings aren’t uniquely attractive. Glossing my guide book, I note three regions that more than tempt this tent-resistant traveler: 

“Norte Chico: Beaches, Stargazing and Verdant Valleys”

“Sur Chico: Ominous Volcanoes, Pristine Waterways and Outdoor Adventures”

“Northern Patagonia: Mountains, Rivers, Glaciers and Fjords”

Wait. Maybe I …

No. 

I am an urban creature, a pavement pounder, a museum roamer, a wannabe epicure, a streetwise wiseacre — whatever. I simply don’t like rocks in my shoes, rattlesnakes or hauling a backpack the size of a Kia up craggy hills.

Take me to Tokyo for the wild nights and neon sizzle. Paris for the boulevards and bouillabaisse. New York for the noise and neurotic hustle. Istanbul, Madrid, Berlin, Montreal, San Francisco … In none of those cities do I need a walking stick or a can of Off!

I’m headed to Santiago, Chile’s capital, a metropolis of turbulent colonial and Pinochet-era histories, creative hives of Nobel poet Pablo Neruda, a patchwork of neoclassical, art deco and neo-gothic architecture, museums, grand parks and hills and the rushing Mapocho River, all backdropped by the Andes Mountains. 

I’ll take day trips to the aforementioned wineries, as well as to Valparaiso Port and Viña del Mar, which provide access to the countryside, coastline and beaches, about as nature-y as I’ll get. (No, I don’t own flip-flops or sandals.)

With a population of seven million people, making it one of the largest cities in the Americas, Santiago promises a breadth of urban sensations. Really, who needs the sanity of the great outdoors when you’ve got dinner reservations at a downtown restaurant called Dementia?

Don’t eat dogs. Just don’t.

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I would never eat a dog. This goes without saying, but I’m saying it anyway to broadcast loudly that I would never eat a dog. Or a cat for that matter. But this is about dogs, a bit broached by a new law in South Korea banning the consumption of dogs.

In a brief from today’s newspaper: “Breeding, killing and selling dogs for their meat will be banned in a country where it has fallen out of favor. Hundreds of thousands of the animals were still being bred for human consumption.”

The first sentence fills me with joy, relief and pathos.

The second sentence renders me a clenched fist of disgust, outrage and sorrow.

The story goes on: “A person who butchers dogs for human consumption could face three years in prison or a fine of 30 million South Korean won, or about $23,000 … The breeding and selling of the animals would be punishable by two years in prison or a fine of 20 million won.”

Not nearly as draconian as it should be, but a start. 

While South Korea joins Hong Kong, India, Thailand, the Philippines, Singapore and Taiwan as places prohibiting the trading of dog meat, millions of dogs are still slaughtered for their meat in Cambodia, Indonesia, Vietnam and other barbaric regions.

I know first-hand about the trade in Vietnam. Some years ago, riding on the back of a ramshackle moto-bike in Hanoi, my makeshift guide decided to swing by an open-air market where cooked dog remains — whole torsos, heads and tails — were displayed. 

He then took me to a “dog restaurant,” where a trio of giggly, visibly drunk male diners beseeched me to join them for some bubbling dog stew (I waved them off). It was nauseating. (Of course later, the guide and I feasted on a cobra that was slaughtered in front of us. This was not a banner day for animal welfare.)

Thank god I saw none of this sort of atrocity, dogs caged like chickens:

The newspaper story has a link to Four Paws, an animal welfare group out of Australia, to which I just recently and coincidentally donated $100 and plan to drop more. I implore all animals lovers to do the same. Look at the site. It will break your heart, hopefully not your bank.

Short-form genius in the press today

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Pork’s perfect proportions

“She notes that her husband’s family used bacon slices as bookmarks.” — from a review of Anne Glenconner’s memoir “Lady in Waiting,” in The Times

Good question

“What Do I Buy My Stepmother Who I Kind of Hate?” — Amy Sedaris’ advice column in New York magazine

Great — or grody

“Cocktails Are Sandwiches. Now Deal with it.” — headline on trend piece in Grub Street, in which drinks taste like subs, paninis and hoagies

Say again?

“I love being immersed in water, but I don’t like being wet.” — actress Tracee Ellis Ross in The Times

Tea-bagging, literally

“The pet I’ll never forget: Moon the gorgeous, stupid doberman, who scalded his testicles in hot tea” — headline in The Guardian (from a funny essay here)

This week’s astounding headlines

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‘turro de force

Onstage, John Turturro is a frothing, frenetic vortex, spewing barbed-wire invective, spittle flying, making you cringe and laugh all at once. He’s Mickey Sabbath, retired puppeteer, devout deviant, a 60-ish sybarite of unbound lusts, a Vesuvian id raging in the night (and day and morning). I recently saw this crackling Off Broadway performance of “Sabbath’s Theater,” adapted from Philip Roth’s acclaimed, notoriously naughty novel, and while the small cast is a marvel, it’s Turturro as Sabbath who harnesses the show’s electric eros, whipping us along on a ride of pathos-kissed perversion. Everyone — he too — leaves exhausted. 

‘Home Alone’ 2023

In the “classic” Christmastime movie “Home Alone,” a little brat played by little brat Macaulay Culkin — in one of the most implausible plot twists in cinema history — is accidentally left behind when his family goes to the airport to fly to Paris for the holidays. So Culkin is all by his lonesome in the big empty house, until two bungling burglars show up … and yada-yada. This year I’m that little brat, home alone for the holidays, my friends flung around the country, and my immediate family jetting to Madrid on Christmas Day. With my parents passed, I’m left with Cubby the magic dog, a pair of impish cats, and, if I get lucky on Xmas Eve, when goodies will be gifted, a tiny tank of swirling Sea-Monkeys, my Proustian madeleine conjuring the age of Pet Rocks and the Fonz. I’m a loner at heart. I spent 10 Christmases solo in Texas, so this is actually my comfort zone. Leftovers, tipples of egg nog, a CBD gummy, a great old movie. I’m set. It might even snow. And there, the tableau is complete.

Mamet’s mad

Though repulsed by his latter-day conversion to all things alt-right, I will listen to nearly anything playwright/screenwriter/director David Mamet preaches about the craft of writing. The Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright (“Glengarry Glen Ross”) has written a zillion books about writing and directing theater and film, as well as penned movies like “The Verdict,” “The Untouchables” and “Wag the Dog,” and written and directed 10 of his own movies, from “House of Games” to “Homicide.” Mamet’s been through the Hollywood wringer, and he’s pissed. His new memoir, out this week, is “Everywhere an Oink Oink: An Embittered, Dyspeptic, and Accurate Report of Forty Years in Hollywood.” I just got it, and though not quite a swashbuckling thrill through the fraught Hollywood jungle (see William Goldman for that), it’s peppered with Mamet’s signature biting commentary. Producers are venal scum (“Are none of you idiots paying attention?”). Race and gender are never off limits. Errant grumpiness is rampant (“If you put cilantro on it, Californians will eat cat shit”). And fascinating insights into arcane movie lore abound. Mamet can be astringent, but anyone who calls “School of Rock” a “wonderful” picture can’t be all bad. 

Packing my bags 

So, Sicily it is. My next journey is a return to Italy — no! To Sicily. For locals, the distinction is vital. I quote: “People from Sicily consider themselves Sicilians first and Italians second. Though Sicily is a part of Italy [the big island beneath the boot] the region has its own culture, traditions and dialect, and Sicilians are incredibly proud of their heritage.” I go in February, after the chilly holidays, before the heat sets in, and before spring religious rites flourish. The history-drenched capital Palermo is home base, with day trips to the ghoulish catacombs and the dazzling mosaics of Monreale Cathedral, plus food and culture tours and lots in between. Tips? Phone lines are open … 

Fido’s funk

It’s raining and the dog went on a walk and got damp and now he smells like a giant corn chip. He’s needed a bath for some time, and the drizzle has activated a slightly fetid doggy odor that happens to recall a processed dipping snack. Pass the Ranch?

Get up and go

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Work, money, kids, pets — these variables can be holding you back from taking the plunge and taking a trip, an honest-to-god bona fide vacation, a far-flung journey to another land, preferably a place where English isn’t the primary language. (England’s great; Japan’s better.) I’m not talking the Bahamas or Cabo.

A neighborhood acquaintance and I ran into each other walking our dogs in the fallish cool today. She’s Mary, who I chat with about three times a year and was sporting a red shirt and red sunglasses. Her dog is tiny and hirsute. Like my dog, but bristly.

Niceties out of the way during this affable stop and chat, she asks, “Where are you going next?” I’m sort of known for jetting to some exotic-ish locale a couple times a year. (Jetting? We’re talking United Economy, baby.)

I tell her Budapest and Krakow, leaving in five weeks. 

Why Budapest, she says (though, oddly, she doesn’t ask why Poland). I say I’ve been meaning to go for years, but it never quite made my bucket list. But now I’m jacked. After deep-dish research, the Eastern European city beckons. (I didn’t actually use the word “beckons” in mixed company.)

“I wish I had that joie de vivre, that wanderlust,” Mary says, almost contritely. 

“But you do,” I say. “I think we all do.”

The dogs sniff each other’s buttholes.

I say that I don’t understand why people don’t travel more, don’t seize the day and make it happen. It’s about priorities. It’s about money. It’s about time. But it’s also about curiosity and interest in the world beyond. How does one not travel? Not harbor the galvanizing urge to move, see, taste, experience? 

I don’t say all that — I wasn’t giving a TED Talk — but I do tell her that travel is easier than you think. Once you finance it — travel cheap! It’s great! — the gears churn and plans get made. (I, of course, travel solo, so it’s even easier without the bulky carry-on cargo — i.e., another person.)

Mary seems flustered, like she can’t answer why she doesn’t get up and go. Which I find odd, frankly. She has a husband and a dog, no kids — that latter part is crucial. She’s practically free! 

“Where have you gone in the last five years?” she asks. 

I think I actually rubbed my chin as I tried to rattle off some destinations: Naples, Rome, Portugal, Scotland, Turkey, Japan, Paris, Bueno Aires … Then it felt show-offy and I trailed off. I did stress Istanbul as an extra special destination, and she seemed genuinely intrigued. She proposed we get together and talk about my trips and look at photos from them (with her husband, of course), emphasizing Turkey.  

She was coming around. In just minutes of gabbing on the acorn-cobbled sidewalk, she was getting the bug. Travel: it’s an infectious disease. And it’s almost totally benign.

Except for this little hitch: it will blow your mind. 

The angsty animal

~ Chris ~ 2 Comments

It’s raining and Cubby won’t go out to poop. He’s a dog, but he’s also a scaredy-cat. 

Yet even more than drizzling drops of water, Cubby cowers at mighty gusts of wind that make the trees sway, whipping up hissing whooshes, as if the gods are sighing at we dim mortals. 

Don’t even get him started when the landscapers are out, buzzing, rumbling and roaring with fossil fuel gusto. The spooked dog melts into a quaking, head-ducking mess. His body vibrates like one of those 25-cent motel beds and he hides between our legs and under chairs.

Cubby is a wuss. And he seems to be getting wussier with age. More neurotic, less secure in his fur, clingier and whinier. 

That hasn’t stopped his predictable barking tantrums when UPS or USPS drop by. Oh them he wants to tear apart between his keening and caterwauling. How exercised he gets when someone walks upon the front porch who isn’t friend or family. He’s a little guy, so it’s almost risible, all that raucous theater. We’d snicker if his clamor wasn’t so trying.

Poor pooch. He’s torn between fear and fury. Of course there’s the sweet in-between: the daily dogginess of cuddles and belly rubs, bully bones and the Baby Yoda chew toy, naps and nuzzles, loving woofs and lazy walks. 

But now, at this moment, Cubs has risen from repose and his ears perk nervously at a chorus of cicadas that’s blossomed after a day of rain. What’s that? Realizing it’s naught, his chin hits the floor again. The old man — 50ish in human years, really not so old — is learning that every noise isn’t a trigger.

An uppity pup? Hardly. He’s a humble character, gentle and obeisant, practically a lap dog. He likes to play chase with Baby Yoda and he gladly comes when called — he practically gallops. 

Despite his fear of the big bad lawn mowers and some other anxieties that may require pills, therapy, or both — did I mention he has to be sedated with not one but two meds before vet and grooming visits? — Cubby is fine, a good dog with curly gray hair and melting brown eyes. Funny thing is, he just might have taken a whole lot after … me. 

Cubby: craven and combustible; cuddly and crazy.

Is Austin overrated? and other stray thoughts

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1. Even through my teens, my two grandmas, bless their long-dead hearts, called me Chrissy, and I didn’t mind a bit (unless it was in front of my friends, then I turned a scorching shade of fuck me). Today, one of my best friends, an unassailable lady in Texas, occasionally calls me Chrissy or even Chrissy Poo in endearing texts. Born Christopher, I’ve always gone by Chris, but that’s a unisex name, and for those of you with monikers like Jamie, Terry, Jessie, Charlie, etc., you know it can get sticky. Sometimes at my newspaper gigs, I’d get hate mail addressed “Dear Sir or Madam.” But that was rare. Readers could pretty much tell I was a guy, because my reviews often had an acid tang, a little banner that said: dick. Two of my favorite names for girls are Samantha and Alexis, which of course become Sam and Alex. I almost named a pet rat Samantha. When my sister-in-law calls the dog my way, she’ll chirp, “Go see Chrissy!” I don’t blush. I kind of like it. If it’s good enough for old Cubby, it’s good enough for me.

2.If I got a bunch of dogs, these are some of the names I would give them: Bongo, Mamet, Alvy, Corn Pop, Gatsby, Heddy, Akira, Brando, Phoebe, Takeshi, Willa, Uncle Johnny, J.D. and, my favorite, Kaboom. I don’t think a single one of the dogs would be pleased with me. Too bad. That’s just for starters. (Growing up we had a little black poodle named Itai, which is Japanese for “ouch.” Just think how he felt.)

Corn Pop and Bongo going at it.

3.I just retired my 2-year-old Apple AirPods — the first generation earbuds that pop out of your head when you sneeze — and replaced them with snuggier AirPods Pro: 2nd Generation, and I made a vital sonic discovery. It’s one that many of you probably already know (this Luddite lags in the world of aural ecstasy). And that’s that the pods furnish remarkably better sound quality when used for movies and videos than plain Apple Music tunes. I do my listening on a MacBook Air, be it music, podcasts, YouTube or films. I’ve watched three movies with the new pods (including the enthralling if baffling “Arrival,” a film that pushes me even closer to hating sci-fi) and the audio excellence — sumptuous, immersive, surround-soundy — has me giddy. Even a 1950s Billy Wilder flick cranked out sound like I was in a fine, classic movie theater that actually gave a spit about its presentation. Power to the pods.

4.I once worked with a masterly, natural-born writer named Michael Corcoran, who was the newsroom’s resident curmudgeon, bristling maverick and trenchant culture critic. Now retired, the award-winning scribe, who’s also a friend, maintains a beguiling blog whose lead entry is as incisive as it is infamous, a biting takedown of his hometown Austin, TX, titled “Welcome to Mediocre, Texas.”

“Only the mediocre are always at their best, someone said, which could be why Austin is so damn proud of itself,” Corcoran begins, and continues:

“There are two cities in the U.S. that truly matter: New York and L.A. Everywhere else is bullshit. Austin is cool and fun and artistic and — most importantly, easy — but that doesn’t make it a great city. The things that make a town a city — rapid transit, a great art museum, Chinatown, pro sports — Austin is without. We’ve got L.A.’s traffic, but no one who can greenlight a project bigger than a Chili’s commercial.”

Read the full rant HERE, especially if you’re reflexively enamored with Central Texas’ ego-tropolis, which a visitor I know once compared to Sacramento and Stockton.

But it sure is purty

The dog’s a cut above

~ Chris ~ 2 Comments

Cubby the dog got a haircut the other day. Told to shave him short, the groomers had a field day. Short. Sure!

Three days ago Cubby was a walking haystack, a fluffy-cheeked Ewok, one of those stray dogs that takes gardening shears and chainsaws to clean up. The goofy part-Schnauzer mutt, a bounding gray Germanic furball, was ready for a summer trim.

And there you go.

Cubby came trotting out from the grooming, mildly disoriented, half-damp, and … ha! What do we have here, little rat-dog creature? Oh, yes. Short. Short. His curls are gone and swaths of his torso are pink, so shorn is the fur. He’s a baby chick, a Peeps.

And how we’re having fun with it. (Sorry, Cubs.)

A friend was visibly shocked by Cubby’s new haircut. “Cubby! You shrunk! You’re bald!,” she gasped. I told her that he caught on fire. She almost cried. 

Someone long-distance asked what the little guy looked like. My brother aptly put it, “Imagine a sausage, a scrotum, a seal and an otter mixed together.”

At least for me, haircuts are traumatic events, so I feel for the fella. To his credit, Cubby hardly seems to notice. Occasionally he’ll scratch or furiously lick those pink areas, but otherwise he seems to think he’s quite the catch, thin and svelte and groovy.

And when I give him a fair assessment, I have to nod and say, “Yep.”

Cubby pre-cut
Cubby shorn

Scottish cuisine — really?

~ Chris ~ 6 Comments

So I was walking around the hood recently and I spotted a squirrel in the road squished like a jelly donut. It was gruesome and sad and got me thinking about mortality, careless drivers, blameless rodents and, yes, Italian food. 

I envisioned the shockingly good meals I ate last year in Rome and Naples: pizza margherita, caprese salad, pasta carbonara, ravioli, gelato, etc. And that led to thoughts about the kinds of food I might eat on my upcoming journey to Scotland. 

This was tricky, because I don’t really know what native Scottish fare is, except for the shuddering national dish haggis, dubiously defined as “a pudding composed of the liver, heart and lungs of a sheep, mixed with beef or mutton kidneys and oatmeal and seasoned with spices, which is packed into a sheep’s stomach and boiled.” 

Suddenly, I see that pulverized squirrel.

This is a job for some A.I., I mused, too lazy to grab my Scotland guide books. So I asked ChatGPT to spit up some famous Scottish dishes and it gave me haggis (#1), smoked salmon, porridge (!), black pudding (sausage made with pig’s blood) and other grub that doesn’t sound wildly appetizing on paper, but rather Dickensian.

That said, I’ve made reservations at seven restaurants in Edinburgh and Glasgow that seem delicious, and almost all of them boast Scottish cuisine (the exception is an Indian joint that looks otherworldly). I’m particularly amped about Makars Gourmet Mash Bar in Edinburgh, which merrily touts affordable farm-to-table dishes featuring lots of mashed potatoes and scads of fresh meats and veggies. Bangers and mash? Um, yeah. 

I was watching “Top Chef” the other night and the show’s deceptively sweet host Padma Lakshmi — she of the cutting parting words, “Please, pack your knives and go” — reminded me how food is of paramount consideration when choosing where to travel. I go partly for the local cuisine, be it sushi and takoyaki (octopus balls) in Japan or jamón ibérico and patatas bravas in Spain (or, gulp, haggis in Scotland).  

This trip is different. Despite my A.I. research, nothing but the cursed haggis stands out, and yet the menus at my reserved restaurants are thoroughly enticing. A quasi-foodie — sort of a Foodie, Jr. — I’m all about adventuresome eating, be it silkworm cocoons in China or that whole cobra in Vietnam I’ve mentioned here a thousand times. Will I try haggis? Maybe. Yet I don’t want to order an offal-filled sheep’s stomach only to gag on the first bite and then where will I be? Embarrassed and out 20 bucks. 

I rarely strike out in my gastronomical exploits — OK, the silkworm cocoons were disgusting — so anxiety is low. I bet I can do haggis. Right? After all, it really isn’t like it’s roadkill or something. 

Damn. That poor, pitiful little squirrel. 

Haggis. There you have it.