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The Thanksgiving Eggs

This is the confession of an egg hunting man. Not quite a Plymouth Rock pilgrim stalking the fowl of the forest, but a hunter for the 21^st Century, nevertheless.

On the eve of Thanksgiving 2004, after it was way dark outside and a mite chilly and some stores had already closed to let people spend the evening with their families, I broke a promise to myself. It was a simple, year-old vow: I would never again go to a grocery store on the eve of a major holiday.

Never again.

But, just after I’d settled in to watch Goldfinger on the Spike TV network, fate pulled me out of my Recliner of Thankfulness.

Seriously, I was fed up with burning off life force while trapped in grocery store lines on the Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving. You think an airport is busy? Hah. You think security lines move with glacial speed? Try the express lane at a grocery store on Thanksgiving’s eve.

Ah, but I even plotted my way around it this Thanksgiving. I shopped on Tuesday morning. Finished it on Tuesday morning, I was certain.

Tuesday morning was still a little rough -- especially in the corn meal aisle where one woman was working two carts. One was filled with groceries, the other had groceries and a baby in a car seat.

I don’t know what aisle was selling babies. And I don’t know how she managed to handle two carts at once but, she was something to watch. She might even have juggled cans of evaporated milk to entertain the baby….or maybe I was starting to hallucinate by that point.

Why did I shop Tuesday morning? Because I slept all day Monday -- don’t know why. My personal schedule is now quite flexible thanks to an unfortunate income-projection miscalculation by some geniuses at the local broadsheet. Don’t quote me on that: Heck, look it up in the official statements. I’m out of work because they couldn’t meet their lofty projections and had to do more whacking than three seasons of The Sopranos.

But I’m not bitter. After all, now I have all the holidays off and I’ve got great parking. And if I want to write that a trip to the grocery store was like a visit to an asylum where all the inmates were playing “reorganize the merchandise,” then it’s perfectly OK. No editor will squelch the truth just because it’s insensitive. I simply read what I write to Inky the cocker spaniel and if he doesn’t growl, I print it. I trust myself not to be too stupid in print.

So my thankfulspouse Martha, knowing of my determination to preserve what life I have left for important things, helped me launch my Tuesday plot. She made a list of items she’d need to execute a wonderful Thanksgiving meal. It would be consumed sometime between Santa’s appearance at the end of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and kick off of what promises to be another turkey performance by the Dallas Cowboys.

Martha’s list of items had this: “dozen eggs.” I got the dozen eggs. And about 9 p.m. Wednesday, as I was watching TV and giving Inky the Cocker Spaniel his daily brushing, she yelled from the kitchen, “I should have told you to get two dozen eggs.”

Well, I am nothing if not chivalrous. And, besides, Inky was brushed and I needed to buy a Lotto Texas ticket. Our neighborhood is not blessed with an abundance of top line stores, but surely there would be one that would help me with the egg order.

I hopped into the family pickup and drove straight to the neighborhood filling station where I planned to buy my lotto ticket. I parked and walked up to the bulletproof window where there was a sign: “In back pulling sodas. Return at 9:35.” It was only 9:10.

I jumped back into the truck and drove under the freeway to the other side of the big slab to another service station and bought the lotto ticket, but the station didn’t have eggs.

I drove to a neighborhood grocery store. It was closed. I drove to a 7-Eleven at Kiest and Polk -- it was being remodeled. Beefy guys were moving counters in and out and nobody was shopping. I drove to another grocery store. Closed at 8 p.m.

Finally, I did what I should have done in the first place and drove to the Big Grocery Store. It’s a chain store and it recently announced that it was converting all its employees to part time employees. I hoped, since the parking lot was full, that ALL of the part-time employees would be there.

They weren’t.

I lost a little time in the shopping process because I couldn’t just walk to the egg counter at the back of the store and pick up a carton. Someone beat me to the eggs.

The racks looked like a pack of egg sucking dogs had gone berserk, ripped the cartons open with their fangs and lapped themselves crazy. So much yolk was oozing off the rack that it looked like a paint factory had exploded on Yellow Cab day.

Out of the 10 or 11 cartons left, I found ONE that had a dozen intact eggs. Jumbo eggs. I grabbed the carton and raced to the checkout stand.

The self-service line was backed up nearly to the jellies. The lines with cashiers were stacked up like jets over O’Hare when Lake Michigan is foggy.

And when I got in line, I got into line behind a woman who had a basket so full that the wheels were splaying. And she had coupons. Lots of ’em. Just behind her was a guy and his son -- they were buying one cake pan and a big blue ball that the kid kept bouncing around in the tiny corridor between checkout stands. Suddenly I was thankful my kids were grown.

All around people were waiting and waiting. And the store’s employees were working hard to get all the foul-mood customers out of there and I am proud to say that by 10 p.m. I was back home and able to relax again.

Now, as midnight approaches, the pecan pie is ready. My Fresca is iced. Martha’s Dr Pepper is chilled. Two cats are chasing a flitting moth through the living room, most of the dogs are asleep and Thanksgiving is on the way. We’re ready for it. I've renewed my "no-holiday-grocery-shopping vow." Life is good and the eggs are in the icebox.

Notes of events and leftovers

Ah, it’s the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Take a look at your belt. This will be the last time for days that it won’t feel stressed. And some of you have company coming, so you’ll be as stressed as your belt.

Remember, enjoy every minute you can -- these are memories you’re building and you want them to be good. Unless, of course, you plan to write about them later in a tell-all book about your family. In that case, take notes. The rest of us await your hilarious tale of domestic disturbances and food fights.

One of the things I always hated was when two loved ones showed up with the same dish and one was clearly superior to the other, but you had to ladle a serving of each onto your plate, then make nice-nice over something that you wouldn’t store in your refrigerator for fear that it would come to life and take over the house.

Well, never mind that green bean casserole -- that was years ago and the cooks have gone on to their respective rewards. One does wonder, however, if each is walking around in Heaven with a big dish and a spoon and saying to the angels, “Try this! Isn’t it divine?”

Now, in honor of the feast of plenty, we’ll have several servings of information today. Feel free to get involved in these things. It’ll be good for your heart to help animals and people (some people, anyway -- we all have our limits). Our cornucopia:

LEGISLATION: If you’re keen on keeping up with how Texans are protecting animals through laws, keep this site handy: www.thln.com . Remember, an informed citizen is a feared (i.e., influential) citizen in the halls of government.

HELPING KIDS: Our animal-friendly buddy Audrey Merritt has a charity that is dear to her heart, Chrystie’s Kids, named for her daughter, Chrystina Windiate, 23, killed in 2000 in a hit-and-run incident. Each year, Chrystie’s Kids provides food baskets, necessities and other things for down-on-the-luck children and their families. Right now, Audrey says, the critical need is for coats and car seats. All donations must be together by Dec. 15, says Audrey. The sorting-and-boxing will be on Dec. 18 at the VFW in Ennis (Take exit 253 off I-45). The party to distribute the gifts is at 3 p.m. Sunday, Dec. 19. “Yes,” Audrey says, “We need volunteers!” (If you can help or donate, call 214-949-2819 or write the foundation at 570 Lakeshore Drive, Ennis, 75119.)

THE RETURN OF IVAN: What kind of dog is this? Why, he’s a Bounceback Chihuahua. Bounceback? Yes, Kim Polen of Treasure Friends says Ivan, a “senior” Chihuahua, didn’t make the cut at his new home and was bounced back because he “was not getting along with their big dog (a Great Pyrenees).” So, Ivan’s up for adoption again.

His bio says, “I am the most loving little guy. Love your lap, the couch, a rocking chair. I follow you everywhere. Love everyone who picks me up and cuddles me. My foster mom carries me in a doggy backpack pouch and I love it. I even get to go to her office sometimes. I weight in around 3 pounds. I recently had my teeth cleaned and now I only have two left, so soft food is a must. I am housebroken and crate-trained.” Big dogs scare Ivan, but he’s OK with little dogs. (To adopt him, go to www.treasuredfriends.org . ) Remember, November is “Adopt a Senior Dog Month.” Aw, heck, let’s just declare that this is Adopt-a-Senior Dog Century. They’re out there and they make great companions.

A CASUAL SEGUE TO BIG DOGS: This note came from regular blogger Chris Cattell who says Texas Labrador Retriever Rescue will hold a “meet and greet” from noon to 4 p.m. Saturday at Canine Commissary in Plano (Custer and 15th). It’s always amazing to me how such swell dogs as Labs wind up in the “rescue” bin. They’re such a friendly, want-to-please breed. You know how friendly and accommodating politicians are just before an election? Labs are that way year-round. And they’re not on the public payroll.

MAKE A MAC DATE: The annual Metroplex Animal Coalition meeting is scheduled for 1:30 p.m. Dec. 5 at the Dallas Public Library’s Walnut Hill Branch, 9495 Marsh Lane, reports Rebecca Poling, MAC’s Member Groups Coordinator. (Get a glance at MAC’s activities at www.metroplexanimalcoalition.com. Pay special attention to the Patt Davis Memorial Spay/Neuter Program and remind your unenlightened friends, neighbors and relatives to get their critters fixed!)

At the Dec. 5 meeting, MAC will elect board members, conduct business and hear a presentation from Kent Robertson, manager of Dallas Animal Services. (Kent’s been doing a bit of smiling lately, ever since they turned the first shovel of dirt for the new animal shelter.)

By the way, refreshments will be provided by Crosby Café & Catering -- a vegetarian friendly company that has a cheesecake that’ll make you “rassle” for the last bite! (My former big newspaper colleague Jeannette Prasifka is the guiding light of that outfit and I’m nominating her for the Nobel Prize for Culinary Peace this year based solely on that cheesecake. If you dropped it behind enemy lines, it would be a solid starting point for an armistice -- you couldn‘t take a bite without pausing to think good thoughts.)

LEFTOVERS: I have a friend who, with her family, is traveling to a relative’s for Thanksgiving at a country club. That means, she lamented, “We won’t have any leftovers!” So, always forward-thinking, she has ordered a load of her family’s favorite Thanksgiving treats from a cafeteria. When they open the family icebox after getting back home late on Thursday, why, they’ll see another reason to be thankful: Leftovers!

Drive carefully. You don’t want to miss the leftovers.

Attention CBS Executives...

Nov. 23, 2004

Dear CBS Executives,

As we approach Thanksgiving, I understand you have an opening at the evening news anchor desk.

Please take some time between your main meal and the leftovers on Thursday to consider me for that position. I may not look that good on camera but so what? CBS hasn’t had a traffic-stopper on the news since Edward R. Murrow tamped out his last cigarette. With modern technology, blurry lenses and dim lighting, I won’t frighten people away from their official CBS Evening TV Dinners, which I hope we would begin to market vigorously. “CBS -- it‘s Newstritious!”

As luck would have it, I am currently unattached to a major corporation -- or a minor one for that matter. Thus my Evening News-hour schedule is open Monday through Friday. I can cut my afternoon nap short if you need me in makeup or the paint department. I have some wrinkles, but nothing two wirey cowboys with a pair of calf-pullers tied to my ears couldn’t straighten out.

If need be, I can come up with some folksy phrases quicker than a coyote can nip a three-legged chicken. Faster than a frog can hop off a highway in August. Faster than a swift boat … well, you get the drift.

Like the preceding anchors (Walter Cronkite, Dan Rather) I have a Texas connection. I was born, raised and educated in the Lone Star State and have never asked for directions, thus will exude comforting masculinity on camera. Like the preceding anchors, I have gray hair. Like the preceding anchors, I can look at the camera and sign off with a signature phrase -- not “Courage!” or “That’s the way it is,” but with a comforting expression to which viewers can relate: “Son of a gun, that‘ll pop your girdle, granny! See you tomorrow.”

I’ve got an extensive background in newsgathering and editing and, in case we need to do investigative stories, I know a guy who is a big wheel at FedEx/Kinko.

I’ve never strapped myself to a light pole during a hurricane like Dan did and I wasn’t in Dallas on Nov. 22, 1963 (I’ve got an alibi), but I have interviewed many politicians and other people under arrest. I know all 26 letters of the alphabet and can use most of them with élan. I know that Mr. Subject and Mr. Verb should agree. And I know how to say, “We’ll be right back after a word from our sponsors.”

That pretty much takes care of my qualifications, I guess. All I’ll need from CBS is half of what Dan was making and good benefits, particularly dental. Oh, and good parking, please.

Now, I await your answer like a hungry tick waiting for a fat dog.

Folksily yours,

Larry Powell

Anchored and Ready to Learn to Say Those Really Hard Names

Two dogs in the rain

Here’s a heads-up on a couple of dogs that someone may be able to save. It comes from former colleagues of mine, Kim Kirkham and Karen Davis. They’ve spotted, writes Kim, “two large dogs in the wide median between northbound and southbound Loop 12 near Keenland Parkway.” (That’s on the part of Loop 12 that comes down off the White Rock Escarpment on the west-southwest side of Dallas.)

She sent this yesterday, but the weather hasn’t changed much and neither have the dogs, I’ll bet. Kim wrote, “Some days they’re walking along, others they’re playing and others they appear to be hunting bugs or something. Today (Monday) they were just laying there as the rain poured down on them.

"One’s a black lab mix, the other may be a shepherd mix. We’re not sure who to tell but we thought you might be able to pass this along to someone who can help them. It’s like they live in the median -- which seems impossible. But there’s no way they could both survive frequently crossing Loop 12 no matter what time of day or night.”

So, dear petbloggers, keep your eyes and hearts open when you're traveling on Loop 12. You may be able to save a couple of dogs. Sometimes dogs are too clever for their own good! Bless their hearts and keep them safe.

A gnawing problem...

You can’t tell this from my typing, but my feet were cold last night.

That’s right. Cold.

Blame Annie the puppy. Annie the chewing puppy -- too big to carry, too young to send to reform school.

I’ve had this heating pad for a while. On chilly nights, when Inky the cocker spaniel prefers to snuggle BETWEEN the humans rather than on my feet, I slide the heating pad under the covers and wrap my translucent monkeytoes around it. I put the dial on low to medium -- one doesn’t want to fry any of the little piggies.

But, last evening, as I enjoyed reading The New Yorker, Annie the 35 pound puppy was busy back in the bedroom.

(INTERRUPTIVE ASIDE WHICH YOU MAY SKIP IF YOU ARE NOT INTERESTED IN WORDS OR WRITING: Why do I read The New Yorker? Because I like to spot the words I don’t know -- yes, it takes me a while to read an issue. I also like to make note of infrequently appearing words that are used in an odd construction in the NYker and will, by next week, be in common usage in newspaper stories. [Keep in mind, I didn’t do any scientific tracking, but this is the impression I’ve gotten over the years. Nominees from the current edition are “febrile“ and “epistemological.”] A writer will see something in The New Yorker and think, ‘I‘ll try to slip that into the paper -- it‘ll make me look well-read and smarter than I am.’ There is an article in this Nov. 22 NYker about plagiarism so I must point out that “adopting” an expression is not quite the same thing as “lifting a passage.” Back to the word game, here’s an example: using “tsumani“ to indicate not a wall of water but a wall of emotions or a wall of expenses. There have been other trend-setters, too. “Homage,” pronounced “owe-mage” became trendy for a while, moving from The New Yorker to National Public Radio to the common two-bit sheets they throw in your front yard. Well, enough of that, let‘s get back to my homage to a tsunami of emotions that swept across my heart when I realized the tragedy in the bedroom.)

When your have a puppy that disappears for a while and isn’t making any noise, you know that something bad is happening. They never, ever find a comfy place to sleep and drop off. They find a place where they can work uninterrupted on mischief.

And that is what I found when I went off in search of Annie. She was up in the middle of the bed chewing on the heating pad.

Just the heating pad.

She’d already chewed the cord off.

It was curled on the floor, still plugged into the wall. I‘d once lectured her about unplugging electric cords, which she had done for a while -- unplugging the radio, unplugging a lamp, tugging on the cords until the room was dark and the radio was silent. Thank Heaven I hadn’t left the pad “on,” when I crawled out of the sack.

Had that happened, well, I keep remembering that scene from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation when the cat chews on the Christmas tree light cord. Zzzzzt. Zzzzzzt.

I spoke harshly to Annie who seemed to reply, “Look, you told me not to unplug things from the wall, so I didn’t. Now you tell me not to chew on the heating pad. OK, fine. Last time. I swear.”

Our other dogs are all older -- senior adults, except for Inky -- so, we had dropped our guard on puppy-proofing the house. Annie spotted the opening and went for it.

She’s still so cute that it makes you want to hug her when she ambles past. You want to hug her and shout, “Stop! I don’t know where you’re going, but I don’t like it.”

So, I’m now weighing whether I want to buy a new heating pad or invest in some nice winter socks, which Annie would pretend not to notice but, inevitably, would lift discreetly from the laundry basket and enjoy like a kid attacks a Popsicle, which my toes, apparently, are destined to become this winter unless I can convince Inky that it’s OK to duct tape-him to my feet at night.

Standing up for the law

I just listened to some legal authority in Michigan announce that it would be “a while” before charges were pursued in that big brawl in Detroit at the Pistons-Indiana Pacers game.

So what, you may ask? Here’s so what: That’s wrong. This event has more film than Gone With the Wind, more witnesses than a Billy Graham revival.

This isn’t a sports problem, it’s a legal problem. And not a civil problem, but a law-and-order problem.

Let’s say it’s a Saturday night and you walk into a restaurant that serves beer and has a band rather than an arena that serves beer and has a basketball game. Someone throws a cup of beer in someone’s face and pretty soon a dozen people are doing the knuckle-bustin’ two-step all over the dance floor. Do you think it’ll be “a while” before the cops arrest somebody? “A while” before somebody gets charged?

Heck, no. There’ll be people wearing handcuffs all over the block.

And nobody’ll have to wait for the president of the ironworkers union or the Teamsters or the Seamsters to publicly suspend you, either, and wring their hands on TV.

These authorities need to pursue charges faster than “a while.”

If there are to be ROLE MODELS in this situation, they should be the authorities, the people who make the laws stick, the people who enforce the laws. Those are the people our kids ought to look up to every single day. This is the time to show swift action.

Neither a sports arena nor an athletic program are independent nations -- they are WITHIN OUR nation.

If you don’t think they don’t try to be independent nations, consider the number of times a college athletic program has “investigated” a rape charge and declared it to be unfounded before the real authorities step in and nail some lousy punk to the wall.

The employees of professional sports should not be “politely” immune to the laws of the land. And holding a ticket to a sporting event doesn’t excuse you from minding the laws, either. Martha Stewart didn‘t slug anybody or threaten lives and she‘s doing hard time.

Put the bad guys in a cell and let them think about why they got there. At least while they’re in jail, we know they won’t be showing up at someplace where we’re having a quiet meal and inviting the rest of us to brawl. Jerks.

The bigger jerks, of course, will be the legal authorities who, after “a while,” decide that the best thing to do is call “off-setting fouls” and penalize nobody. This is a chance for the law to be the law. All of America needs these authorities to defend this “nation of laws.”

You can either e-mail me about this at [email protected] or meet me by the bicycle rack after school and we'll sort things out...until the teachers come and break up the rumble......Just kidding. I'm a writer, not a fighter.

Storms and companions

It’s really storming in Oak Cliff right now and I have two dogs wrapped around my ankles. Baby Jane Doe, a 100-pound thunder-sensitive shepherd mix is on my left ankle and Glinda, the 6-pound Maltese is on my right.

I don’t know why Baby Jane’s so anxious, but I do know about Glinda: She was found wandering the streets of Lancaster after that tornado about 10 years ago. We took her in to foster -- you know how that works -- and she spent about 2 years under our couch before she realized the all-clear had sounded. We finally lured her out with mini-marshmallows. She usually doesn’t pay attention to rain or a little inclement weather, but when she gets upset about a storm, I start to worry, “Is this the one? Should we all get in the bathtub and pull a tarp over us?”

Of course, the weather doesn’t bother Inky the Cocker Spaniel or Annie the Heeler Mix. Right now they’re growling at each other and playing “let’s race around the recliner then slide to a halt next to the bookcase and do it all again.” Annie likes to chase, be chased, and to herd cats.

Now, the bad thing about this sort of weather is that dogs left in the back yard have a tendency to leave that back yard. There’ll be loose and puzzled dogs all over town if they weren’t properly housed when the storm came through. Human failings put pets at risk. Write it down. It’s a truth.

Meanwhile, we got this note from the Companion Animal Network about some dogs that have been in foster homes for a while and really need permanent places to live.

Some have been boarded for more than three months. Among them are Russell, a Jack Russell mix; Seymour, a Great Pyrenees mix; Bruce the Moose, an American Bulldog; and Coolidge, a dachshund/corgi mix. To contact the Companion Animal Network go to www.companionanimalnetwork.org, . Write to 11529 Glen Cross Dr., Dallas, 75228. Call 972-686-8987.

Looking at Coolidge’s photo reminds me that a human just couldn’t design a dog that looks like that -- he’s got to be a naturally occurring miracle. Bless his heart and may he soon find a home that’ll appreciate him for more than his looks! He appears to be full of charm and grace. He may have been in the diplomatic corps at some point.

Coral snakes & the Dallas Cowboys

Pardon me for posting this so late on a Sunday afternoon, but, dear fellow earthlings, I’ve been napping. Didn’t used to do that. With the freedom of not having to force myself to go to an office on Monday morning, I can relax on Sunday afternoons.

And, if you read the previous blog, you’ll note that we were up and moving until well after midnight this morning.

Nap time was mandatory. Martha and her harp co-conspirator Carla played the offertory number (“We Gather Together”) at a church in Dallas. They played at the early service (had to be there at 7:45) and the late service (started just before 11). I only made it to the late service, thank Heavens, so to speak.

At church, I ran into a fellow I used to work with who (a) was stunned to see me in a church and (b) tells me that we customers ought to expect more unpleasant business decisions down at the big media company. (Change is going to save money, they say. Saves mine -- I’ve cut back on my weekly purchase of spray starch and headache tablets. After all, all those headaches belong to THEM now. I’d like to help, but I don‘t know if they can afford my consulting fee. Maybe I ought to set up a seminar called "How to Sleep Well Before an Ugly Monday." )

I don’t know if this is Biblical, but I slept right through that early service. And, I swear on a stack of Baptist hymnals, I was in deep sleep and dreaming about coral snakes -- giant ones -- until the phone rang at 9:30 with Martha saying in a nice way, “It’s time to get up and go to church.” Still, the image of these giant coral snakes menacing me and my unidentifiable dream companions is sticking in my increasingly uncrowded brain.

And I’ve got nothing against coral snakes. I know there aren’t “giant” coral snakes. And I’m confident that it’ll be a cold day in the Everglades before I’ll get caught in a situation that involves coral snakes.

So, if anyone can interpret this dream, feel free to explain it to me. (E-mail [email protected] ) I’ll be more than happy to share it with other members of the Giant Coral Snake Fear & Dreaming Society. I’m pretty sure these weren’t coral king snakes because, in my dreams I kept confidently reciting that old coral snake identification poem, “red and yellow hurt a fellow.” At least I think that’s the way it goes.

Now, when we got home after church, we were desperate for some sleep. And that’s the good thing about most of our dogs. You want to nap, they’ll nap right along with you.

But other dogs stalled our nap. Big ugly dogs. The napping was delayed about a half hour by the fact that we could not avert our eyes from the Dallas Cowboys’ game with the Baltimore Ravens. It was like watching a bus flip over and skid down a highway, sparks flying in grand rooster tails until the bus comes to a halt on a bridge over a rushing river, then, the bus tips over the edge and twists in agony to the sad fate below. By the time the bus flipped, Martha was asleep. I stayed awake until the ugly end, unable to comprehend how such an awful season could be happening to the Dallas Cowboys.

Somebody must be putting giant coral snakes in the locker room and that has unnerved the team. Now every time the players get into a huddle and look down, they must be looking for coral snakes hiding in the turf. That’s as good as any other explanation for the unpleasant moments on the field of play.

Or maybe the players are simply the worst football-playing millionaires on the planet. All that money and they can't block or tackle.

Barry Manilow, er, well, he rocks...

Sure, it’s after midnight, but we just got home. We’ve been out on a Saturday night. That's such an odd thing that if I still worked at a newspaper I’d yell “STOP THE PRESSES!”

We don’t go out much but Martha, through an act of kindness, scored some tickets to the Barry Manilow concert at American Airlines Center. You know what? It was a pretty darned good show -- that guy’s fans sure do love him. And he, apparently, sure does love his fans. There was solid energy, solid love. Lots of fun. He did old songs, new songs and, with his backup singers, a sensational version of the “William Tell Overture” sans instruments. Just voices. You don’t hear that everyday.

Martha loved “Time in New England.” But, unlike the lout she married, she’s a romantic. Though, at intermission, the house sound system played music and Martha sang along (perfectly on key) with “Play That Funky Music, White Boy.” She’s a wonder. (In fact right now she’s practicing her harp -- it’s 12:21 a.m. and she’s practicing her harp. I’m glad she didn’t take up the trumpet.)

(Aside: I saw Elvis in concert about 1973, so he’s always the top dog with whom everyone else is compared. Johnny Cash was pretty darned good, too, way back in 1968. Barry Manilow is a crowd-pleasing showman and I‘m glad I got to see him. I haven‘t been to a rock concert since….well, Elvis. Sheesh, how old AM I?)

We live in a time of transition. I’m coping with a career change; Barry Manilow is ending his last tour, he told us. Ended right here in Dallas Saturday night.

Here’s the transition: At the outset Barry told the crowd, “For those of you who are old, I’m Barry Manilow For those of you who are new, this is what Clay Aiken will look like in 30 years.”

Ah, transition…someone’s always in the wings. Of course, some are in the bomb bay and they just drop right out of sight. Barry Manilow’s lasted a long, long time.

We should all be so lucky. Time to check the lotto. If the right six numbers fell, it won’t matter if I can sing. 

A brawl, a starving dog and Veteran's TV tale

Goodness gracious. The NFL spends all week apologizing for a sexy TV commercial on Monday Night Football and -- WHOOPS! -- the NBA trumps the coverage with a game-ending Friday night fight between players and spectators in Detroit. Scary video.

Ask yourselves, my fellow Americans, would you rather have someone drop a towel or throw a punch? Would you rather see a Super Bowl “wardrobe malfunction” or a super stupid brain malfunction?

Of course, I eagerly await the Swift Boat Veterans report on this incident. I’m kiddin’. But I won’t be surprised to see Congress launch an investigation into violence in sports. After all, Congress is always looking for new things to do since it pretty much settled the problem of violence in the rest of society.

And, speaking as a nearly civilized fellow, nothing would be more disgusting than the NBA taking  the position that this happened at a sporting event so “We‘ll settle this in-house.” Drawing an out-of-bounds perimeter doesn’t mean you’ve set up an independent country inside the lines. We’re a nation of laws. Let’s apply them. For everybody. Millionaires in short pants and punks in the stands shouldn’t be exempt. That’s how the rest of us keep order -- applying the laws.

THIS DOG DIDN’T CHARGE INTO THE STANDS: We get this note from Wendy Miller of the Southeast Dallas Humane Society. “Look what I found wandering my neighborhood!,” she writes. She managed to capture this starving little dog, now known as Ren. You may recall from an earlier blog item that Wendy is trying to reduce the number of rescues she’s fostering because she’s expecting and she’s jobless and she’s facing some “interesting times.”

She says that “a friend and I were coming from picking up some dog food, went to the thrift store (now that I’m jobless, it’s definitely used items for the baby), got a call from hubby.” And hubby says, “there is this little dog …that looks like he hasn’t eaten in a while. Wendy, he is starving, he needs your help.”

Wendy says she “dropped everything and ran to the rescue.” After an hour of chasing and some serious ferociousness and fear on the part of the dog, Wendy nabbed him.

She took him in 3 days ago and now the dog is bonded with her and “suffers from separation anxiety.” And very available. (E-mail [email protected]) He’s about six-months old, neutered and has never played in the NBA.

VETERAN'S TV APPEARANCES! Loyal pet logger Diane Combs sent a note reminding me about the great story of Veteran. You may remember that in a previous life at a local paper, I wrote a story about this great dog adopted by Poppy and Don Sundeen. Diane writes that she saw a feature on Veteran on the Channel 4 news Thursday night. Veteran is the 10-year-old, one-eyed puppy mill dog rescued by the SPCA of Texas (www.spca.org) and adopted by Poppy and Don. Diane writes, “It was a great segment on TV -- almost 5 minutes long about his rags-to-riches story. If you missed it, it will be repeated on Thanksgiving Day at noon (on Channel 4.) … I know animal-loving people would be thrilled to see it and want to know ahead of time so they can tape it.”

Thanks for the note, Diane. (And, thanks, too, for starting one of your e-mails with a line that the local paper “is crazy for letting you go.” I don’t mind the paper being crazy, but I do hope it finds room in its heart to help animals and animal people. Responsible, responsive journalism is always a good thing in a democracy. It‘s a mission. Animal people should remember, squeaky wheels get the ink.)