It was a perfect hot July weekend and I was surrounded by my kids, grandkids and four dogs: Shlomo, Floyd, Lucy and Daisy. There is no better sound in the summer for me than the sound of little kids playing in a pool and laughing and screaming at the top of their lungs, while four dogs, wildly barking, are chasing each other in a circle around my lounge chair.
I lay back, closed my eyes and drank in the chaos.
My reverie was interrupted when little Maggie, age 3, my daughter Jodi's youngest, said out loud:
"Oh look! Lucy is giving Shlomo a piggy-back ride."
I jumped up and separated them. And I said to Shlomo, "Lucy is just a puppy and you, Shlomo, are a pervert."
Shlomo looked confused and disappointed. I thought back to the column I wrote three years ago when I first got him. Here's how it went:
I'm in love.
We have a new dog and his name is Shlomo.
He's a tiny little ball of sweet fluff. He's just a few weeks old and he's a charmer – so so sweet. Pick him up and he fits in one hand and he will smother your face with doggy kisses.
Last Friday night was his first trip to East Hampton.
After a few bumper-to-bumper hours on the Long Island Expressway he snuggled in my wife's, the beautiful Judy Licht's, arms and, without a whimper, fell sound asleep.
"I can't wait to get to East Hampton," I said. "First thing I'm going to make us is a couple of margaritas."
Now you must know this, and I say it in all modesty – I make the most delicious margaritas in the country . . . maybe the world. Here's my recipe:
Jerry's Lethal Margarita for Two
1. Squeeze the juice of two fresh limes in a blender.
2. Add 4 ounces Jose Cuervo Gold Tequila.
3. Then add four ounces of Cointreau. Do not use Triple Sec; it's crap. The secret to a great margarita is fresh lime juice, good-quality tequila, Cointreau and plenty of ice in the blender.
4. When you have a frosty mass of margarita, run the squeezed lime around the rim of a glass. Dip the rim in salt, add more ice to the glass, pour and enjoy.
Now, the night wasn't going to end with margaritas.
No sir, there was going to be sipping margaritas sitting on lounge chairs, staring at the beach and the moon with sexy music playing in the background.
My iPod has been programmed to play some of the sexiest music known to mankind.
I have 148 songs in my sexy music playlist and my fear of causing a dramatic rise in the world's population keeps me from revealing all 148 songs, but here are just 10 I've selected at random:
"Body Heat" . . . Quincy Jones
"Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" . . . The Eurythmics
"Gaucho" . . . Steely Dan
"Moonglow and Love" . . . Theme from Picnic
"A Whiter Shade of Pale" . . . Annie Lennox
"Floating" . . . Julee Cruise
"Love Is Stronger Than Pride" . . . Sade
"Desafinado" . . . Stan Getz and Charlie Byrd
"I'm in the Mood for Love" . . . Julie London
"Smooth Operator" . . . Sade
So before I put on the music and made the Lethal Margaritas I jumped into the shower to wash the advertising business off of me.
When I came out there was little Shlomo staring at me.
Now if you're eating while you're reading this column I urge you to put this paper down and get on with your meal because what follows is disgusting.
So I'm toweling off and I look down and just then little Shlomo made a poop.
But this wasn't an ordinary poop. This was a poop of a dog the size of a 200-pound Saint Bernard.
It was amazing that a dog as tiny as Shlomo could have done this. So I threw down my towel and grabbed some paper towels and rushed to remove the evidence.
But little Shlomo was intrigued by the evidence. In fact, he approached the poop as though it was something he wanted to play with.
"Shlomo, get away!" I screamed. This of course was futile because not only didn't Shlomo know his name was Shlomo, but he didn't understand a word I was saying.
"AWAY!" I screamed. Instead Shlomo thought it was a game and he thought he and I were going to play hockey with his poop. He came forward; I was hopping around and pushing him away. All of a sudden I was in a life-and-death struggle with a little five-pound dog over a pile of poop.
"Away!" I screamed. He advanced. I pushed it away. He pushed it back. I finally won but to tell you the truth it was a hollow victory. I was sick to my stomach.
Judy came bouncing into the room. "Aren't you going to make the margaritas?" she asked.
"To tell you the truth," I answered, "I'm feeling a little nauseous. By the way, Shlomo made a poop, but I cleaned it up."
"Ohhh," she screamed, ever the mother. "My little baby made a poop," she said, and she picked up Shlomo.
"I wouldn't kiss him if I were you – for a couple of years," I muttered under my breath. Then I slunk away.
When our dog Oreo died Judy asked me if I thought we should get another dog.
"Yes," I said.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because we all need something alive and dependent on us. We need something immature and annoying and needy in our lives so that we will always stay young. That's what life is all about."
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