Why We Suck (16 page)

    It's hard to raise kids right, to work toward being a working family unit. Let's face the facts-all families are dysfunctional. Do you know of a functional one? The Kennedys? Who may not have molested each other but somehow managed to grope their way through half of the Western Hemisphere? Not to mention enough drugs and alcohol to drown a herd of horses. Oops-didn't mean to mention drowning. What about the Bush family? Are they functional? Compared to the Kennedys they would seem to be somewhat normal-just that little matter of the one with Asperger's syndrome. You know-George Junior?

    Listen-I look back on how my wonderful wife raised two terrific kids who have grown up with a wonderful sense of humor and two hearts big enough to care openly about each other, their parents and those who are worse off than they are-and I can be proud.

    I look back on the way my parents raised us and I am eternally grateful that my mom and dad made us go to Catholic school where we learned to develop a sense of right and wrong and where Sr. Rosemarie Sullivan taught me how to dance and sing and act and ultimately even pointed me toward Emerson College, where I ended up-because of Sr. Rosemarie's training-getting a full scholarship to write and act. I am grateful that my parents supported my dream. I am grateful that my dad told us the truth and my mom always gave us a hug and a kiss and they both never failed to let us know how much they loved us and we all lived under the same roof and always felt like we could turn to them for help and maybe an extra dollar or two. That to me is what a functional family is all about.

    And I've got the scars to prove it.

    

    

    That's right. Your cat sucks.

    Both your cats do.

    Or-if you are what's known in the normal human part of the world as Cat Crazy-all fifteen of your cats are of the world as Cat Crazy-all fifteen of your cats are simpering, hairball-spewing, self-centered wastes of domesticity.

    Need proof?

    How many stories have you recently heard about or seen on TV or even read about that involve a cat somehow helping to save its owner?

    Answer?

    Not one.

    Last year?

    By my Internet count-exactly zero.

    In your entire lifetime?

    Think about it for a second.

    Zilch.

    Which means-not a single, solitary one.

    How many stories have you heard about or seen on tv or even read about that involve a dog somehow helping to save its owner?

    Countless.

    There was a whole television series about a dog who-each and every week-saved its owner or members of the owner's family or even complete and absolute strangers. That dog was named Lassie.

    And before you cat owners go off on a tangent about doggie propaganda and media bias and blah blubbedy meow, let me point out the fact that the reason there has never been a TV series about a cat who saves people is because they couldn't find a cat capable of being trained for the purposes of working on camera.

    The dog who played Lassie was so good-he played a goddam female dog.

    How many times have we all read stories about a strange smell coming from some apartment where an elderly cat owner who hasn't been seen in over a week resides-and when they break the door down they find said owner dead in a chair. Half-eaten by his or her cats.

    Ever heard a story like that about a dog?

    Nope.

    There is one famous tale about a dog whose owner died. They buried him in a cemetery in Edinburgh, Scotland. His dog slept on his gravestone until he himself passed away.

    They made a movie about the two of them. It's called The Greyfriar's Bobby.

    Now there's a statue of the dog in the center of town.

    No cat statue.

    Matter of fact-I don't think there's a statue of a cat anywhere on this earth. Why?

    Because they suck.

    We have a cat. He lives in a barn in the country and kills mice. The horses love him. My wife likes him. The kids think he's cute.

    Me?

    I don't trust him as far as I could throw him-which wouldn't be very far since he's the size of a fat raccoon on steroids. He's the Roger Clemens of catball.

    Sneakers is the name the kids gave him but I just call him what he is-Cat. And you know what? He answers to that name just fine. Because he doesn't know he has a name. Because he doesn't care. Because he's a goddam cat. To him, I'm just a giant mouse he doesn't have to kill because I open tin cans with fish and fowl in them and place them on the floor in front of his fat cat face.

    But here's my point: after the Twin Towers fell in New York City on 9/11, firefighters and cops began the daunting task of sifting through the rubble for survivors and-eventually-just human remains.

    Assisted by-guess who?

    That's right.

    There were no rescue cats down at Ground Zero.

    There are drug-sniffing dogs at airports, dogs who search the woods when you or your kids are lost, hounds who stuff their noses full of serial killer scent and chase down murdering scum, St. Bernards who gambol down steep snowy trails looking for broken-limbed ski fanatics, Belgian shepherds who search snowpacks after an avalanche, postexplosion English terriers, ocean-rescue expert Newfoundlanders and the list goes on and on. Each and every one of them waking up to find, feed, save and savor us.

    When's the last time you stood at a street corner waiting for the walk sign to blink to life while a blind guy wearing wraparound sunglasses and carrying a cane sidled up to you-miraculously unafraid and NOT bumping into anything or anyone-because of the efforts of his faithful, duty-bound, Seeing Eye CAT?

    Never? That would be the universal answer.

    There is no Cat Whisperer.

    A cat could give two catshits if you are in a good mood or a bad mood. The only time he/she/it decides to rub against your lower leg and purr its purry little purr is when it's

        a. Hungry

        b. Really hungry

        c. Hungry and in heat

    

    Dogs have a snout that breaks into a doggie smile when they greet you.

    Cats just sit there and glare.

    Dogs dream. They run and yelp and spout muted barks of warning-even as their eyes are closed-probably protecting you from some awful, unknown entity.

    Cats nap.

    Hoping that you fall into a deep, deep sleep. So they can then begin their secret, evil rounds.

    Dogs read your body language like a fine canine encyclopedia-you are a dense, vast, infinite forest of rich and finely discernible tics and tremors. One slightly arched eyebrow on your forehead has your dog translating and reacting, placing a paw on your lap-offering an eager look and willful eyes and that thump thump thumping of a happy and eager tail.

    A cat? A cat ain't even aware you just came home. And when a cat does deign to prop its gaze upon you-it's only hoping that if you drop dead right now you do so on the couch so it can have a comfy pillow to knead its perfectly manicured paws into while it gnaws upon your flesh.

    Cats do not care who the owner of the house they live in might be, since they don't consider themselves pets. They are cunning and incomparable killing machines who spend all day long preening and fussing and staring at birds.

    A dog only knows one owner-you. You are his favorite person or thing on this planet. When you come home the sun shines eternally in his dancing doggy eyeballs. Unlike mere mortal and judgmental human beings, your dog loves you no matter what. How you look, how you smell, sober or clean, sane or crazed, naked or clothed-you are his one and only best friend. You could stumble through the front door bleeding and bound and your dog would help unwrap the ropes and then begin licking your wounds.

    You could chop up the asshole next-door neighbor you've been secretly planning to kill-suddenly snap and head over to his house with just a wood ax and twelve years of angst popping out of your carotid artery and all your darling buddy pooch would do is sniff and follow along nipping at your heels, as if to say "We gonna kill that guy now? Hah? Can I help? Hah? We gonna bury the body afterward? Hah? I love you, man."

    You can saunter into the house covered in horseshit-which I have actually done, living almost full-time on a horse farm-and the stench emanating from your boots and pants and pores is an absolute buffet for your dog. He can't get enough of you-nuzzling your trousers, licking your face, lingering his nostrils around the nape of your neck-goddammit do you smell good to him. Horseshit is like the finest French perfume for a dog. As is almost any foul, rank, dire, vile or invasive scent you could possibly emit.

    As a matter of fact, if there was a Calvin Klein in the canine universe, the carefully designed fragrances he would offer up could include Horseshit, Pit Stink, Damp Towel Rot, Pizza Breath, Ear Aroma, Cheese Foot, Yoga Crack, Just Arrived Home Vagina, Post-Tennis Tea Bag, Crusty Sock, Dried Up Scab, Under Tit Sweat, Nipple Fluff, Ass Lint-the list would be almost endless. Such is the devotion of the dog to all elements of your very being.

    (Yoga Crack is another good name for a band, by the way.)

    Can you imagine any lover on earth who would say "Go jump in that pile of batshit, then roll around in that muddy field for a while, piss your own pants, puke and then please oh please rush right over here and give me a big long happy hug and a kiss-please?"

    You'd have to pay a hooker an extra twenty grand for that. Maybe more.

    Just ask Eliot Spitzer. He probably knows.

    Which reminds me-just one day after the world burst open with the wicked news of his decade-long, under the radar, sick and expensive liaisons with online ladies of the night-after everyone from Letterman to Leno to the scions of the Catholic Church and Hebrew heads of scholarly study had chastized him in disgust and disbelief-when all of his trusted aides had fallen by the wayside with nasty asides and angry bromides-when even his wife had given up being photographed in the ex-gov's disgraced presence-the paparazzi caught him out for a leisurely walk along Park Avenue with his one and only remaining confidant-his dog.

    His dog could care less who he hired to fuck or how he fucked them or where or when or how often. If the dog had been along for the trysts he would have happily sat in the corner of whichever five-star hotel suite whiffing sexy whiffs and playing One Dog Toss with a hooker's bra or Chew Through The Crotch with her discarded panties or seeing how fast he could munch a bunch of sixty-five-dollar-apiece Oreos out of the minibar cabinet.

    Dogs don't care if you are a hooker or a hater or even Adolf Hitler-it's all about how you feel to them when they first meet you.

    It's not a dog-eat-dog world. It's a dog-eat-cat world.

    Why?

    Because dogs can't stand cats. And if you have ever known and loved a dog-think about it:

    If a loving, caring creature who trusts you with his life doesn't care for someone-don't you get suspicious? Some visitor or friend of a friend who approaches the dog or just enters your house and your dog acts immediately strange and gets his guard up-isn't there something inside that makes you instantly distrust that person? Yes. It's true. Because dogs can smell fear, they can sense danger. If that's the case-why does your dog abruptly wish to kill and/or chase down each and every cat he meets? Let me do the doggie math for you:

    Because your dog knows your cat is evil.

    Your dog knows that any cat alive is only out for its own interests.

    Your dog knows that cats would slink right up to the Devil should he somehow adorn your door, slithering along Satan's leg-unable or unwilling to differ between Beelzebub himself and you.

    Which brings us to Michael Vick.

    In the dog world, Michael Vick IS the devil.

    An All World Star Quarterback famous for his unbelievable speed and agility and highly rewarded for turning the Atlanta Falcons into an exciting NFL team, Vick's jerseys and commercials and assorted other endorsement deals made him a multizillionaire almost overnight.

    What was Michael's response to all the money and the spotlight? 1

    Paying the up-front money, the house bank for the bettors and providing the backyard arena for a dogfighting ring that resulted in countless dog deaths and abuse.

    Dogs fought to the death and the ones who didn't die but may have been seriously maimed were shot in the head or hung from tree branches or choked until breathless as female dogs were chained to raping posts where the male dogs could have their way.

    Do not YouTube the videos.

    Vick was arrested and charged and did the expected American stepdance of criminal guilt:

    

    STEP ONE: Deny deny deny.

    STEP TWO: Blame it on friends and family.

    STEP THREE: Blame the media for blowing things out of proportion.

    STEP FOUR: As investigation heats up, blame a "friend gone bad" and a "second cousin."

    STEP FIVE: As media glare gets worse-break out "can't a rich black man get some justice?" speech.

    STEP SIX: When confronted with irrefutable evidence and testimony provided by said bad friend and second cousin, blame your actions on booze and pot.

    STEP SEVEN: Go to rehab.

    STEP EIGHT: When rehab stint doesn't faze judge or make looming prison sentence disappear-find Jesus.

    STEP NINE: Go to church a lot. Toting a Bible. Even on Tuesdays. Jesus this, Jesus that.

    STEP TEN: Convicted and sentenced-and in desperate need to hopefully still be allowed to play football and make millions when you get out of the joint-hold a press conference in which you mention Jesus, apologize to your fans, talk about God, make amends to your family, mention Jesus again and apologize to the owner of the Atlanta Falcons.

    

    That's what he did.

    Apologize to everyone he thought was involved in his dirty, filthy, inhumane activities.

    Except dogs.

    He never mentioned the dogs.

    Not once, anywhere along the line.

    Jesus, yes. Dogs-nope.

    Not even a dog named Jesus.

    And there were many members of the media-mostly black-who tried to give Michael Vick an out by saying that people didn't understand the culture Michael had grown up in, where dogfighting is considered a normal sport.

    Oh really.

    Well, then-here's the culture I come from:

    Instead of going to prison for a solid eighteen months-where he is hopefully having footballs forced up his ass by heavily tattooed ex-Wu Tang Clan members (very very DRY footballs, by the way)-I offer an alternative.

    Vick-or any other convicted dogfighting czar-doesn't have to do hard time in the big house. He just agrees to perform in a little charity event that I like to call "Strap A Meat Suit On Michael," which consists of this:

        1. Sell out Giants Stadium-all proceeds going to buy Snausages, raw-hide bones and multicolored squeaky toys.

        2. Broadcast it live on international TV.

        3. Strap an entire suit made of meat onto Michael Vick OR just have him wear some jogging shorts and a T-shirt and we will attach a sixty-pound pack of assorted juicy beef to him, with a fine filet mignon arranged right around his groin (think of it as an athletic supporter made of steak).