Not everyone loves your dog like you do.

We Americans love our pets and even give them names and accept them as family members. And, in truth, they often do seem like just another part of the family. Mainly dogs, but also cats. Any other pets -- reptiles, gerbils, birds, etc. -- are usually kept in cages, to be enjoyed just by us, not our guests. But we give our dogs and cats freedom to roam, not just outside but inside the house, too, guests be damned. Just as we do our kids, if we're not thinking.

Cats don't present much of a problem, since by nature they're kind of aloof, keeping to themselves, roaming around in silence, avoiding us. Sure they sometimes jump onto our laps to be stroked, but when they're tired of it, they jump off and go out to do their own thing. Cats are self-contained and don't think they need us all that much, even if we both know they do.

Dogs are another matter altogether. We've domesticated them to the point that they almost think they're us. But, in reality, they're not. Bred from wolves, I assume, or at least wild ancestors, they have adapted to being pets only to a certain extent. They love human interaction and attention, but they do keep, somewhere down deep inside, those old animal instincts of the chase and the biting. Some breeds -- Dobermans, pit bulls, and others -- can be very aggressive, no matter how long they've been family pets.

These breeds need to be watched, constantly monitored, to be sure they don't suddenly -- out of the blue -- attack a neighbor child. It happens all the time: read your newspaper. The results are often tragic.

But even the best-kept dogs of docile ancestry, while not aggressive, are often intrusive, nosing up to company, jumping up on them, expecting from everyone the same kind of attention they get from their loving owners. If you've ever had a friend's dog sniff your crotch or hump your leg, you know what I mean.

If you consider your dog a member of the family, it seems reasonable to ask that you hold him or her to the same standards. If you wouldn't let your son or daughter intrude on my space, don't let your dog.

I've never been to someone's house where the host/hostess had to put the cat in the backyard.
On the other hand, I've been to many such an occasion when the dog had to be so exiled.

Dog lovers don't understand why anyone would object to the attention their trusted/loved pet chooses to bestow on them. Thanks but no thanks. Your dog may indeed be your best friend, but he/she is not mine. If I wanted a dog, I would get one. (And I've had many.) And if I wanted a dog jumping up on me, I'd get one that did that. (I've had many.)

In short, I don't want your dog imposing himself on me any more than I want your teenaged son imposing himself on me. What if your son insisted on humping my leg when I came to see you? And then wanted to sniff me and maybe sit on my lap? And wouldn't leave the room until ordered to? If then! Wouldn't you be embarrassed if not horrified?

But dog owners, on the whole, are pretty much oblivious to their dogs' bad manners. Only as a last resort, and often seeming offended, do they put the obstreperous canine outside or at least in the basement or another room.

With all due respect, and with fond regards, remember that your beloved dog is beloved by you and your family, not by me. I'm fine petting him or her on the head once or twice, but after that it's time to usher Fido or Fifi outside or to another room so that I can spend time with the humans who are so graciously hosting me and our friends.

We humans have developed a special bond with certain animals -- mainly dogs, cats to a certain extent, even horses -- but that bond is between us and those creatures. Our friends and guests don't have that bond with our animals. They come to our house to see us, their human friends, to talk and drink and visit with us, to enjoy our company.

Love your animals, as you love your kids, but when guests come to call, put them all in a nice place away from the adult human action.

Dogs are God's creatures, as are rambunctious children, but, unless stipulated in the invitation, they aren't welcome at every party, even if it's at your house, where they all live.

Maybe it's just me, but I don't think so.

If you're going to commit suicide, make it look like an accident.

There comes a time in some of our lives -- not all, thank goodness -- when we think we can't go on living the life we've been given or have fashioned for ourselves. We decide to kill ourselves.

It's a terrible thing but happens all the time, every day, often to people we know and were friends with or even were married to or who bore us and loved us. Or, worst, who we bore.

Most often, I suspect, it's older folks who are suffering from multiple ills and just want to end it all and get on with whatever the next phase of life is. (Wishful thinking, meaning religion.) Or it may be to get out of great pain -- from cancer or whatever -- that we know will never let up.

But too often it's younger people who have just run out of love and other resources and find themselves in trouble and/or in debt and see no way out. That's the saddest, of course, since things may turn out better tomorrow or the next day or next year.

The decision is ours. Yours. Mine. And I don't argue with it.

But do think about those you leave behind.

Probably nothing is sadder than a family having to deal with a loved member who shot himself to death. Hemingway did it -- with a shotgun -- and so did that Nirvana guy. An explosion in the head, and all that mess to deal with. Who's supposed to mop up your brains from the bathroom floor? Your mother? Your sister? The hired help?

Do they deserve this?

Yes, you're done, out of it, relieved of any more pain. Good for you. But what about them?

In short, suicide -- the intentional ending of your own life -- is not just about you.

Do you have children? What will they think? That it's okay to kill yourself when things are too hard to deal with?

If you don't have kids, you most certainly have someone who cares about you. How will your suicide impact that person? It may be the biggest shock he/she ever encounters. Do you really have to do that to them? Ruin their day that way?

My advice to anyone thinking of committing suicide is to make it look like an accident. That way, your wife/husband/children/friends can pretend that you didn't do it intentionally. They need to think that, so grant them the gift of doubt, okay? And they need a story to tell to prying people. It's the least you can do for them.

How can you make it look like an accident?

That's tricky. Run your car into a highway abutment or the rear end of a big truck, I guess. You'll be killed on impact. If you're a dare-devil, drive off a steep cliff. If you can't swim, fall out of a canoe or trip into a fast-moving river. If you're cowardly, take too many pain-killing pills. It's hard to disguise a suicide as anything else, but it can be done. And if you're hell-bent on killing yourself, it's your moral duty to come up with that perfect cover.

Above all, don't shoot yourself. Also, don't hang yourself. A rope around your neck is a dead giveaway that you meant to do it -- and what an awful visual image to leave behind! And don't go crazy and get the cops to kill you (suicide by cop). In other words, don't kill yourself in a way that makes it plain that you did it to yourself. Period.

To re-cap: Should you decide to end your life, your last gracious act to your family and friends ought to be to make your suicide look like an accident. It's not easy to do, but if you've put some thought into how to do it, you should put a little more thought into how to make it easier for your family to accept and explain and maybe -- just maybe -- come to terms with later.

If you pull it off -- a suicide that looks like an accident -- I suspect your efforts will grant you some leeway in the afterlife (if there is one). It will, at the least, speak well of you in this one.

A last word of advice: Wait until tomorrow. There's no hurry.

Don't make me take off my shoes when I visit, okay?

I know some people who live in immaculate houses who ask all their visitors to take off their shoes and walk around in their socks. They do it themselves every day, so they expect their guests to do it, too.

I understand when it's a religious practice -- okay, I really don't -- but just to keep your carpets clean?

Give me a f-ing break!

Where and when did this odd ritual start? I don't remember when I was a kid having to take off my shoes before going into anyone's house. And I visited some very nice houses. Someone will have to educate me on this, as I don't have a clue.

All I know is that, somewhere along the line, upscale home-owners started asking visitors to take off their shoes before stepping foot inside. If, like me, you wear mainly lace-up shoes, that's a big inconvenience. Not only do I have to un-lace and take off my shoes, but then, upon leaving, I have to put them back on and re-lace them.

What am I missing here?

Are your floors and carpets so delicate/expensive/pristine that you can't stand to have any shoes defile them? Aren't they meant to be walked on?

Hey, I scuffed them on your welcome mat on the front porch (meant for that purpose) and probably won't track in any dirt. My shoes are clean.

It reminds me of the old practice of placing plastic wrap over certain pieces of furniture -- chairs and sofas -- but I always assumed those were meant for display, like fine paintings. I thought it odd even then, even in the nicest of houses. A chair and a sofa are intended to be sat on, right?

I have to assume that some people consider their homes germ-free and that they want to keep them that way. Good luck with that! If you've had kids, you know that it's impossible. Kids track in dirt and grime daily. So do guests. Get used to it.

I've been to see houses for sale where I had to put on hospital-like booties to cover my shoes before I could tour the house. I sort of get that, especially if the owners have recently re-done their floors. I'm a potential buyer, so I want to see that house looking its best.

But if I'm coming to your house, my friend's house, why make me take off my shoes? Hey, you're living there, you're hosting me, someone you've known forever. Do you really think it's okay to make me walk around all night in my socks? Should I also use plastic utensils at dinner and eat off plastic plates to keep from dirtying your fine dishes and silverware?

There was an episode of SEX IN THE CITY where Carrie had to leave her shoes at the door, and someone took them -- very expensive shoes. I don't think that's likely to happen to me any time soon, but the point remains the same: my shoes are mine, and I don't want to abandon them in your doorway. I'd like to keep them on my feet. That's why I wear them. They feel good. My sock feet in your house don't feel so good. Sort of weird, actually.

Cover your furniture if you don't want me to sit on it, but I'll keep my shoes on if you don't mind. If I make a mess on your expensive carpet, if I track in some mud, I'll help pay to have the carpets cleaned. Hey, your company is worth it.

When you're hosting a party for friends, don't ask them to change the way they've been doing things all their lives. Expect them to be polite -- and hope they bring a hostess gift -- but don't make them take off their shoes. If it's a religious thing, tell them ahead of time so they can decide if it's worth it, but otherwise don't impose it on your friends just to keep your carpets clean.

Really.

Chickens in the backyard are nothing new.

Recently there has been a trend in various parts of the country to allow home-owners to raise a certain number of chickens in their backyards. Usually roosters are excluded because -- duh -- they crow early in the morning.

Why do otherwise normal people want to raise chickens?

I think it's because they have a romanticized idea of chickens. After all, they're attractive birds, in a domestic kind of way: plump and slow, unable to fly (i.e., escape) more than a few feet, and often very pretty. A white hen clucking softly and poking around after grubs or whatever in the dirt, fluffing her feathers from time to time, lends to many of us a sense of living in the country. A tame hen can almost seem like a pet.

But chickens aren't pets.

They may get used to us, but they don't interact with us all that much. They have very small brains -- compared to a dog or a cat -- and just do their chicken thing: try to find something to eat. They are pretty much oblivious to us. And the ban on roosters means that the hens we're allowed to keep aren't exactly free range, meaning they aren't existing in a setting nature meant for them. After all, they are females of a certain species, looking -- and looking out for -- males of their species, which our civic ordinances rule out.

So what's a frusrated hen to do without a rooster? Wander around, pecking at the ground, laying eggs that aren't ever fertilized, providing us humans with easy breakfast and a mild diversion. Hey, it serves our human purpose and doesn't hurt anyone, right?

What's missing in this modern version of raising chickens, besides the absence of the rooster, is how and why we did it in the old days, why chickens were domesticated in the first place: food.

What's missing is cutting their heads off and carving them up to provide the family with a Sunday dinner.

I once saw my father, a nice man not prone to violence, grab a plump hen by the neck and haul her, squawking like crazy, to a chopping block, a tree stump, in our back yard and sever her head with one blow of a hatchet. And then, in fact as in myth, the hen rolled around for a while, headless, before dying.

I was about six years old at the time.

The chicken was then taken into the house, where my mother -- with her degree in history -- had to pluck all the feathers from the dead hen and scoop out, with her fingers, the innards. All this to give us a bland stew, with some carrots and potatoes, for Sunday dinner.

Even then, way back before I knew much of anything, I thought this was kind of barbaric. I mean, that chicken had been walking around in our back yard minutes before -- and now was on my plate?

Of course it doesn't bother me these days to buy cut-up chicken at the supermarket, often on sale -- breasts, thighs, wings -- but that's because I've put out of my mind the execution of those chickens when I was a kid. How else could I eat them? I also put out of my mind how chickens are raised nowadays, in crowded conditions that deprive them of any dignity, any movement. They are packed into cages like they're headed for the death camps -- which they are.

I have no problem with anyone raising chickens in their yards, unless their neighbors complain. After all, chickens are, as they say, God's creatures and deserve their own lives, and, for the most part, they are quiet and peaceful. As we used to say in the South, God love 'em.

On the other hand, cutting roosters from the mix means messing with biology, with the natural order. As obnoxious and obstreperous as they can be, roosters are important members of any chicken community. They fertilize the eggs. Without them, the community dies out.

Here are two stories from my childhood with chickens.

One year we had a big hail storm that killed lots of chickens. My father's hens were all killed. An old woman who used to buy from us and provide us chicks for the next year told him that all her hens and their chicks had been killed but that she needed the money so she could give him her last hen. My father asked her if the hen had a name. She said yes, that it was named Daisy.

He gave her two dollars -- the going price for a hen past laying -- and said to be sure Daisy got plenty of food for the coming winter. He gave her an extra dollar, which he couldn't afford.

When I was no more than five or six, I ventured into the backyard, where our big rooster ruled supreme, like a sultan with his harem. I was feeding the chickens but always keeping an eye out for the rooster, who was very territorial and known to charge anyone who approached, wings out-stretched, making all sorts of threatening sounds. I was halfway to the hen house, spreading corn, when I heard a great flapping of wings and then this: "I've got you now!"

Terrified, imagining being pecked apart by the rooster, I dropped the corn and ran for the house.
It was then that my dad appeared from behind a tree, bent over laughing.

I am a great fan of chickens, and roosters, too.

Before you decide to raise them in your backyard, you should be, too.



















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