OK, that was a smarmy tale.  But, you cynics will ask, how did this love match turn out over time?  Allow me a pause while my heart and my head work out a compromise answer.  Well, hot and cold, in a word "uneven" all affairs of the heart tested by years.  If I had to give it a grade, it would be a gentleman’s B.

We’re still good friends, and we have our moments of intimacy, but our relationship is no longer in balance.  I’m more smitten with her than she is with me.

Before I explain the many turns our tryst has taken, let me bring you up to date on Heidi, that pup I rescued at six weeks and used to call Moriarty, after the nasty professor who was Sherlock Holmes’ nemesis.  She’s mellowed since then and has earned the name of Heidi, virtuous orphan girl of the Swiss Alps.  Let me also say that at age five she physically shines in her pale tawny prime, never more brightly than when her long uneven hair is backlit by the sun, enveloping her in a lustrous golden halo.  And let me tell you more about her adult looks.  In overall appearance, the Golden Retriever genes of her mother dominate, with the long, wavy hair and the puppy cuteness that remains in her fluffy white rump area.  Only a slightly lighter coat, a broad and deep chest, and that wolfish snout remain to tell you she transcends the mere sweet gentleness of her older, purebred Golden Retriever “half-sister,” Gypsy (also a rescue).  

It was those very physical anomalies in Heidi that prompted me to get her DNA checked in the first place.  Turns out the Shepherd genes (German Shepherd and White Swiss Shepherd) of her paternal line dominate her behavior.  Intelligent, curious, protective, duty-driven, aloof, often mysterious, she is frequently moody, on an emotional pendulum, and would prefer to explore than eat.  She’s first up each morning to patrol the house to see if all is safe, intact.  If something is new or moved, she makes note of it with a satisfied sniff.  Before going out to answer nature’s call, she stops and freezes at the open door, surveying the yard for possible threats or intruders.  Once outside she patrols the property’s periphery to confirm that nothing’s amiss.  Her nose knows all.  

I should also number among Heidi’s virtues her protective nature.  She has this uncanny way of sensing the weakest, sickest, most vulnerable person in any social gathering and crouching in front of him or her, as if to protect them from any insult or assault.  Reconcile that with her reversion to wolfish ways when presented with a new toy animal.  She sinks her canines into the effigy’s throat and shakes it violently from side to side until it’s reduced to a slack rag emptied of its cotton innards.  A kill to please her ancestors!

But not my wife—not when it extends to dismembering gentle Gypsy’s toys.  Timarie has sternly warned Heidi that those are off limits, never in season, on the forbidden list.  Strangely, Heidi understands.  I have watched her approach Gypsy’s treasured little brown bear with the liquid stealth of a leopard, smell it, then turn reluctantly away without baring a fang.   

It’s hard to figure out Heidi’s many peculiar ways.  Take her relations with other canines—dogs met at the beach or on the street.   A few she warms to immediately, as though they were old, well-sniffed friends; with some she is permanently standoffish, silent, and keeps her distance; and to some she suddenly extends an olive branch, welcomes them into her circle of friends without visible motive.  She is, in sum, consistent only in being inconsistent, predictable only in her unpredictability.    

With one exception.  Play.  She has a passion for athletics and games and will play them anywhere at anytime with anyone—though it's most often with my son Franz, who roughhouses with her in daily no-holds-barred bouts.  And she loves it!  She becomes a blond streak ricocheting off living-room bookcases and coffee tables without a flinch or a moan.  If she had two legs instead of four, she’d be a first-round pick at running back in the NFL draft.   


Wrestling shows off her muscled body to great advantage, but I think she really prefers playing ball—you know, you throw it and she chases it for as long as your arm holds up, then brings it back for more.  (For me, it isn’t long; I’ve needed Tommy John surgery since before it existed.)  Others, too, tire of the game in time...certainly before she does.  I’ll never forget when she, having exhausted all the human arms in the house, trotted over to Marie the cat (since deceased in her twentieth year and off to cat heaven) and dropped a ball between her feline paws.  In vain.  Marie was disinterested.  Being a cat, she couldn’t grasp it was hers to throw.  I had a new respect for Heidi’s mental powers after that.

Stop!  Enough!  Quit dodging the issue, I hear you shouting.  Get back to the amour and how it’s going between you and your dog!  Finish your true romance!

Well, it’s not as torrid as it used to be.  In truth, Heidi has extended her circle of affection to include my wife and my my expense, I must add.  We’re still good friends, of course, and there are days (increasingly rare) when she seems to remember who first rescued her and first loved her, and she cuddles up with me as on the most passionate of past days together.

I rationalize my slip in status.  After all, my wife feeds her, walks her, grooms her, medicates her.  My son also feeds her, plays with her, sleeps with her.  All I do is worship her and stroke her coat when she lets me.  I understand the whys of my demotion in affection, and in my heart I know that if our foursome had to be reduced to a threesome, she’d vote me out. 

But then I remind myself that love is rarely at parity between lovers.  With time and wear comes an imbalance in feelings exchanged.  I got a reminder lesson of all that just last week.  Franz was away on vacation and I was home alone with Heidi at midday.  Suddenly, only ten feet from me, she lifted her head and let out a heart-rending bay I hadn’t heard from her in a couple of years.  Those who have heard the sound of wolves in the wild howling their feelings know what it sounds like.  A call from the deep past, the sound both chilling and reassuring, a fellow mammal’s complaint of life’s loneliness.   

I tried to comfort her with words.  No response.  She gave another heart-felt wolf howl.  A cry for help?  I moved toward her to comfort her with strokes.  She moved away from my hands, trotted down the hall, and stopped for a third loud lament.  She was in front of Franz’s closed bedroom.  Oh!  That was it.  I opened the door.  She went in, leapt upon his bed, curled up in the ancestral way, at rest at last.  Sure it hurt.  Another reminder of my diminishing place in our pack’s love hierarchy.  But I’ve come to accept my reduction in rank and treasure the more what love I do get...the gentle way she takes a proffered treat from my hand, the morning leap upon our bed to give me a nose-to-nose wake-up-call, her evening eagerness to get a back rub when I have settled into my recliner.

Yes, love is, like gold, where you find it.  And when you do, hoard it.  Remember always the Prioress’s wise words on her way to Canterbury: Amor Omnia Vincit.  (For those of you who have forgotten your Chaucer and your Virgil and your Latin: “Love Conquers All.”  Or, in the Beatles very loose translation, “Love is all there is.”)

 Old reliable Gypsy is ready to play ball with the geezer while uppity Heidi has to be begged.

 Old reliable Gypsy is ready to play ball with the geezer while uppity Heidi has to be begged.




Here’s a course correction to securing your financial fortune this year!

As you know from last year, I’m your ultimate source for wagering advice in the world of baseball.  And you lucky believers in my powers who played my picks laughed all the way to the bank with your take from those hapless Vegas bookies.  Yes, I told you in April of last year the Cubs and Indians would meet in the World Series.  Many of you laughed out loud, I’ve been reliably informed.  I assume you’ve been kicking yourselves in the tail ever since.  

For those who missed out, I gave you a second shot this spring with my selections to win for the 2017 season.  They were:

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The bold face of teams above indicates the division leaders (and the qualifying wildcard teams) as of September 2, about a month away from the final standings.  Selecting seven out of the top eight playoff-bound teams ain’t bad, don’t you agree?  This year I also tabbed Washington and Chicago in the National League championship series, with the Nationals emerging the winner.

In the American League Houston and Cleveland would reach the finals, with the Tribe to triumph.  As for the World Series, I picked Washington over Cleveland in six.

Alert!  A last minute course correction!  There’s been an Indian uprising!  It’s now Cleveland over the Dodgers in the World Series!  Yes, the Dodgers may have a team that compares favorably to the great 1927 Yankees, but they have been slipping lately, while the Tribe is, as we say in the Clubhouse, en fuego.

If you haven’t yet made your bet, you’re in luck with the update.  If you have already wagered on my April choices, place another on the revised picks for the World Series as a hedge that should bring an ever bigger payoff.

Still skeptical?  How could I possibly tab jerkburg Cleveland over Newman-loved LA?  Besides the aforementioned momentum shift, Cleveland has the best pitching and the deepest pitching (starters and relievers), and we all know that pitching is the name of the game.  We also know that the American League has a slight edge in overall quality.

So what are you waiting for?  Reserve that Brinks truck now; hire that NRA brother-in-law of yours to ride shotgun; and head for Vegas in October to pick up your swag.

I modestly acknowledge your applause.  No, no charge, though gratuities are accepted.  If all goes well, I’m thinking of changing professions and investing in a pack of Tarot cards.


A reader reminded me recently that when I started this blog I said I was going to talk about the misuse of words in public discourse.  Be a word cop, in short.  I confess I’ve strayed from that mission, what with Reichsleiter Donald Trump threatening our very lives nonstop here on planet earth. 

In any case, I resolved early this week to find time to return to my original purpose.  

My first action was to put two much-abused words on the disabled list (DL), with hopes that they might return to health and use with rest. 

The first was “absolutely.”  You can’t listen to talking heads talk these days without set-up questions being answered with an “absolutely.”  Besides the lethal repetitiveness of the word, it’s risky usage: in a post-Einsteinian world of relativity, very little, if anything, is absolute.  Give the word a break.

Second is the puzzling popularity of “existential,” as in “existential threat.”  Why this fancy way of saying “real,” “factual,” or “empirical”?  Is it because of its visually close association with the word existentialism, the fashionable philosophy that makes you sound important?  Then quit showing off, I say as a practicing existentialist (Camusian variety).  You’re only confusing your listeners for no good reason.

That’s where I was when Trump fired FBI Director James Comey.  Why?  Front and center with the answer came the president’s back-up flack,  Sarah Huckabee Sanders: Trump did it “for atrocities [committed] against the chain of command.”  Really?  Against Trump’s chain of timid and misinformed toadies?  Atrocities? Really?  Did Comey bomb Yemeni hospitals?  Re-open Auschwitz?  Or not swear loyalty to the mentally deranged New York street thug who obstructed justice by demanding he do so?

I suggest all you Trumpenproles out there open a dictionary and look up the word “atrocity” for starters.  And do I think firing Comey after asking him to end his investigation of General Flynn for his ties to Russia poses an existential threat to our continued existence as a democracy?  Absolutely!


Sorry to be two weeks late and two rubles short, but here, by popular demand, are my (and your) picks to click in the 2017 Major League Baseball Season.  You’ll remember that last year, against the wisdom of my higher paid colleagues in the soothsaying business, I predicted a Cub/Indian World Series; those of you who listened, drove to Vegas, bet a wad on my prescience, shoveled your haul into the Brinks truck rental, and were rewarded by being bumped up into the 39.6% tax bracket.  You are welcome.

Why not do it all again?  I must alert you though that picking the winners this year is far more difficult than last—particularly in the American League East and National League West divisions.  In the former any team but Tampa Bay could win it all this season.  In the latter the Dodgers will have their hands full fighting off the Diamondbacks and Rockies; the Giants will do a major fade, however. (Ditto for the Angels, I’m sorry to report.)

Without further ado the final regular season standings for 2017 are:

What about those playoffs?  Well, the Chicago Cubs will face the Washington Nationals in the National League final series.  The Cleveland Indians will face the Boston Red Sox in the American League final.  World Series?  Washington over Cleveland in six.  You can take it to the bank.  Or to Las Vegas again, if you’re one of those greedy folks intent on passing our president in personal wealth.  And remember...per my usual policy, these selections are guaranteed.  If they all do not finish in the order predicted, I will provide you next year’s picks absolutely free of charge!   

By the way, I remain a baseball card collector in my old age.  And I’m desperately seeking the Major League Rookie card for the guy pictured below in an early photo.  If you have it, or know where I can find this guy’s rookie card, I will give you $25,000 cash for it!  Help me out.  Remember all I’ve done for you.