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 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.
“First thing I’m going to do when we get there is make us is a couple of margaritas,” I said.
I make the most delicious margaritas in the country…maybe the world. And 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.
I have 148 songs on my sexy 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),” 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 & 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.
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 the equivalent of a poop from a 200-pound St. Bernard. It was impossible that a dog as tiny as Shlomo could have done this. So I grabbed some paper towels and rushed to remove the evidence.
But little Shlomo was intrigued. In fact, he approached the poop as though it was something he wanted to play with.
“Shlomo, get away!” I screamed.
Instead, Shlomo thought it was a game and he thought he and I are 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,” and she picked up Shlomo.
“I wouldn’t kiss him if I were you—for a couple of years,” I muttered.
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,” I answered. “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.”
Welcome to my life Shlomo—you owe me one.
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