Dog Training
To mark the festival of association football, try a bit of word association - with "Germany". Running a personal search engine through our memories and misconceptions can have unfortunate results. These may well begin with "terrible food", continue with a stereotype about the nation's territorial aspirations for everything from poolside sunloungers to Poland, and end - at least among English football fans - with the chant of "Two World Wars and one World Cup, doo-dah".

As a result of a mindset rooted in the post-war era, the vast majority of Commonwealth citizens neglect going to Germany - and we are the losers.

Germany is a near-perfect holiday destination. Whether you seek a world-class city-break (Berlin, Munich, Cologne), startling scenery (Bavaria and the Harz Mountains), or history and high culture (Dresden, Weimar, Bayreuth), the Federal Republic provides the answer. And with every degree of global warming, Baltic and North Sea beaches become that bit more appealing. Germany should be up there with France, Spain and Italy on the list of European favourites.

Germany is a profoundly beautiful, welcoming and cultured nation. I propose a journey that deliberately seeks places way off even the most eccentric - or erudite - tourist's trail. They also have names that resonate with a certain distaste: Neanderthal, Frankenstein and Rottweilers. And to vary the diet, I shall throw in a dash of Worms and the odd Wuppertal.

My trip, I confess, began inauspiciously with a cheap flight from England to a nearby airport. If your boarding pass reads "Dortmund", bad luck: you are about to have your prejudices reinforced. The plane lands at an airport on the edge of a city that was almost entirely wiped out by Second World War bombing.

Nothing unusual there: dozens of German cities were flattened by the RAF, and have been meticulously reconstructed according to the original plans. But not Dortmund. I spent what felt like a very long afternoon in the city, of which the highlights were a) the airport and b) the former Gestapo headquarters, now a museum aimed at keeping the memory of unspeakable cruelty alive.

Stay with me, though, because close by you can find a pair of intriguing attractions. First, make your way through the post-industrial detritus that pocks the Ruhr into a deep, thickly wooded valley. This was carved by the Dussel, the river that gains a "dorf" where it meets the Rhine. The vale is named, though, after a 17th-century romantic poet called Joachim Neander who used to meander hereabouts. His valley became known as Neanderthal. And when, in 1856, remains of a colony of proto-humans was discovered, the species was named Neanderthal man.

Neanderthals roamed around Europe and the western parts of Asia between 300,000 and 30,000 years ago; there is no truth that their tribal totem was a white flag bearing a red cross. Amid the blossoming trees you encounter sculptures representing a curious, stunted species with large noses. They were wiped out during the last Ice Age, their sad story told in the nearby Neanderthal Museum.

If Neandertal man had had a chance to design a public transport system, it might look like the one just south of here, in Wuppertal - a very long and very thin town, with homes and factories sprinkled along the slopes and floor of the valley formed by, you guessed it, the Wupper river.

In the late 19th century, Wuppertal needed a new transport system. The valley was already very crowded, so a surface line was out of the question. Digging an underground railway would have proved absurdly expensive for a small town, and so the German equivalent of Heath Robinson was brought in to build something that looks like a misguided vision of what the future will look like: the Schwebebahn, or suspended railway. Vehicles resembling floating trams whoosh in the manner of high-speed Zeppelins along the valley, suspended about 15 metres above roads and river by an elaborate system of pylons and cables.

Somehow the system lasted long enough to celebrate the centenary of its completion - despite a nasty incident in 1950 when an elephant, being carried on a promotional exercise, took fright and leapt into the river below. He survived, as has the Schwebebahn.

The carriages reach high speeds, and you might initially find the way they sway disconcerting. But they are addictive: besides the feeling of being on a municipal theme-park ride, you see a town from on high and from end to end.

After the full eight-mile stretch, you will demand another go. The flat fare of '1.80 ($3.65) is cheaper than Disney - and if you are travelling on a regional rail ticket, you get the ride thrown in.

Forty years after Adolf Hitler opened the factory that was to make the Volkswagen - a mass-produced vehicle designed by Ferdinand Porsche for the new network of autobahnen - Germans appear to have decided that they prefer their bahnen without the auto. The nation's public transport system is both a superb model of integration - connecting any tiny hamlet with any quarter of every big city - and amazing value. I bought a sequence of one-day regional tickets that allow unlimited travel on trains, buses, trams and preposterous aerial tramways for a low, fixed fare.

Services are extremely reliable, even in the most vicious of winters; a classic and long-standing advert for Deutsche Bahn is "Alle reden vom wetter. Wir nicht". (Everybody talks about the weather. We don't). Next stop on my cut-price, high-speed tour: Frankenstein's castle. This 13th-century fortress, just south of Darmstad, is straight out of central casting, and the inspiration for Mary Shelley's novel. One dark night in 1816 the writer ventured here to investigate a legend: that Johann Conrad Dippel, a mysterious physician-theologian, had conducted experiments using human body parts. His ghost is reputed to sit on the roof and replicate the research for a week each winter between Christmas and New Year.

The castle's name comes from the original owners, the von Frankenstein
family. Later, it became a military prison, then fell into disrepair. You are welcome to wander around the ruins, and inspect the life-size relief of a von Frankenstein in the chapel. You will also want to admire, from the ramparts, the splendid view of the Rhine valley: the artery of western Europe.

Time for dinner - at which point some travellers will run a mile, usually straight across the Rhine towards France. In the 800-plus pages of Lonely Planet's guide to Germany, not a single line is found for the places on my tour so far: Neanderthal, Wuppertal and Frankenstein's castle. But the book is far from silent about the food: "A land of meat, pickled cucumbers and potato dumplings," it opines, adding: "No part of the pig is safe from Bavarian chefs".

The Germans do like meat. All of it. They like to get every pfennig's worth from a pfund of fleisch, which means that if you have longed to know what sausage made from brains tastes like, you are in the right country. But anyone who eats meat should celebrate their fortune in being somewhere with such an appetite for animals. If miscellaneous minced organs do not appeal, try sauerbraten: beef marinated for an age, which melts in the mouth in minutes.

While German chefs have their work cut out to make the country more vegetarian-friendly, the brewers need no help. The German policy of purity (when applied to beer, at least) is a model prescription. Only water, malt, yeast and hops may be used by brewers: a simple recipe that creates a deliciously complex array of beers.

By the time I crossed the Rhine to reach Worms (no smirking at the back of the class, please), the light was beginning to fade.

I asked a man in a Mercedes for directions to the centre. He insisted that he would drive me there; and no, he wasn't a taxi driver.

The city that was once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire's parliament, or Diet, is best seen at dusk late in spring, when mist disguises the beauty of the city and cloaks everything in a Mitteleuropean melancholy - especially the vast Dom (cathedral), which has, er, dominated this European crossroads for nine centuries.

Germans pronounce the city roughly as "Vorms", to rhyme with "forms", and we should really get over our childish amusement at the name. Even so, I could not resist searching, unsuccessfully, for a Cafe Worms or a Worms takeaway.

So I slid into the Worms Youth Hostel ("slither in, wriggle out", could be its slogan), which, like all other hostels I have been to in Germany, is spotlessly clean and ridiculously good value. Just '17.50 ($35.50) buys you a sun-lounger with towel - sorry, a bed in a dorm including linen - plus the best breakfast Worms can provide. Tee hee.

A little further south, you may glimpse the occasional tourist, especially in Heidelberg: a sparkling university city. But keep going south to watch the scenery improve with every mile - and encounter another country. The most easterly point of France jabs in to the ribs of Baden-Wurttemberg just a few miles from the city of Karlsruhe. The river dividing Alsace-Lorraine from the Saarland is a curious no-man's land even 61 years after the end of the Second World War. From the map, I thought I could detect a bridge linking Germany with France. When I turned up, I found a tiny ferry shuttling back and forth across the river with a few cars and pedestrians until nightfall.

From here, most people head south into the Black Forest. But I wanted to meet the Rottweilers - about 25,000 of them, contentedly chewing the fat in the tranquillity that now prevails in the oldest city in Germany's south-west.

Rottweil once lay astride a European superhighway, which is how it came to lend its name to fierce dogs. The original hund came from across the Alps - indeed, the Romans and later traders brought the animal over the mountains because it was strong enough to get its teeth into an Alpine traverse. Rottweil lay on the main highway north, and happened to have some fairly robust sheepdogs. They were crossed to create the Rottweiler Metzgerhund - which translates as the butcher's dog of Rottweil.

The dog's reputation in Britain may be fearsome, but in Germany the Rottweiler is so well-regarded that it is the standard guide dog for the blind.

Rottweil is one of the most beautiful towns in Germany. With no strategic targets, the town evaded the sights of Allied bombers during the Second World War.

As a result, its Gothic Hauptstrasse looks as though it is the backdrop for the most fabulous of fairytales - perhaps one involving a young lad, a football and the Weltmeisterschaft (Germany's name for the World Cup, which I think has unfortunate overtones of world domination).

Rottweil is also splendidly provincial. To get the finest of panoramas, head uphill to the Hoch Turm (high tower). First, though, call at the tourist office to ask for the key for the gate. I was given it in return for, temporarily, surrendering my passport in the manner of an English hooligan.

From the summit, survey the majestic architecture. Let your eyes explore the hills - handsomely embroidered by human effort.

Then head for the convivial Cafe Schadle for a glass of the robust local wine and relax. For you, Tommy, the tour is over.

Paul told Scott Morris that he let the dog out one morning. About the same time, a young woman jogged toward his house.
First, Paul whistled for Honey to come back inside. The dog ignored him, as did the woman. Then Paul yelled. "Honey, come here!"
He said the young woman, who never saw the dog, wheeled around and glared at him for an instant as if to say, "Not in your wildest dreams." She didn't jog past his house again for a long time.
Don't go there
The state's two-year college chancellor, Roy Johnson, talked to members of the state Board of Education about detailed plans for college involvement in hurricane evacuation.
After the session, M.J. Ellington reports, Roy said he had a much simpler solution that would not involve the colleges at all.
"I hope they just go away," he quipped, about the powerful storms.
Cut that out!
A frustrated federal judge, tired of the bickering between lawyers in a case, made his view clear in a recent decision, Eric Fleischauer reports.
The judge ordered the lawyers to meet at the courthouse steps with a witness present. "At that time and location, counsel shall engage in one (1) game of 'rock, paper, scissors.' "
Presbyterians seeing sights
Some 4,000 Presbyterians who will be in Birmingham for their General Assembly, starting Thursday, will find opportunities to experience Alabama's rich religious life ' and try out some not-so-religious activities ' Melanie Smith learned.
A canoe trip on the Cahaba River, led by a minister who was once the denomination's moderator, is one option. There is a church tie-in, beyond the obvious one of experiencing God's creation. A presbytery is creating a camp along the Cahaba.
Delegates also will be able to take a side trip to visit Huntsville First Presbyterian Church, founded in 1822. Other options include tours of churches involved in the civil-rights movement, church ministries to the needy in Birmingham, a Selma church started in 1816, and Stillman College in Tuscaloosa, founded by Presbyterians in 1875.
As young as you feel
At age 99, my wife's grandfather renewed his driver license for four years. In his youthful outlook, he had something in common with Cliff Garl, who recently earned his pilot's certificate in Arlington, Wash., at age 91.
Cliff made his first solo flight in a Cessna 172. He's thinking of logging more flying hours to earn a recreational or private pilot's certificate, according to The Associated Press.
"You go to a nursing home, and you'll see people a lot younger than he just sitting there," said his flight instructor, Joe Bennett, 75. Before taking lessons, Cliff had to show the Federal Aviation Administration that he was healthy enough.
Dog Training

When we first bought our puppy, I lay awake at night worrying that someone might reach over our front fence and steal her. Now, 10 months on, I lie awake at night worrying that someone might not reach over our fence and steal her.
How has it come to this?
All the other dog owners I know adore their pets. They have photos of their dog in their wallet; they bore workmates witless with tales of their dog's latest adorable antics; they have a permanent whiff of liver-flavoured dog treats emanating from their trouser pockets; and they don't hesitate for a second when asked to agree to yet another astoundingly expensive course of veterinary treatment.
As far as I'm aware, none of them fantasise about throwing a tennis ball for their dog to fetch in front of a fast-moving truck, or daydream about driving to a secluded patch of wasteland at midnight and digging a terrier-shaped shallow grave under the trees.
Type "love dogs" into Google and you will find more than 80 million entries; type in "hate dogs" and there are a mere 19 million. It's not the most scientific of surveys, but clearly, the consensus is that dogs are a good thing.
I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I fell out of love with my dog. It may have been when she chewed our lounge sofa and two chairs with such thoroughness that we had to have them entirely reupholstered. It may have been when she reduced our newly designed front garden to a quagmire of muddy holes, uprooted saplings and flattened shrubs. Or it may have been when she saturated our bed with a torrent of urine, presumably because she'd recently been able to tick "wee on every square centimetre of lounge carpet" off her Things To Do list and felt ready for a new challenge.
Though, thinking about it, I suspect it was the time shortly before Christmas when the dog took umbrage at being tied to a Property Press stand while I went into the butcher's.
Seconds after being given the "stay" command 'C which, frankly, might as well be the "balance on your forepaws and woof the theme tune to Grey's Anatomy" command for all the notice she takes of it 'C she hared off down the street toward home, Property Presses scattering in her wake and the metal stand clanking terrifyingly on the end of her lead.
Alerted by the screams of bystanders, I ran out the door, sped off after the dog, and rugby-tackled the magazine stand while various neighbours lined up behind their fences to yell encouragement.
For a few seconds, the dog was sufficiently strong to pull me along, creating what must have seemed to onlookers a grotesque parody of the traditional Christmas tableau: a red dog-drawn sleigh pulling along behind it a portly passenger clutching, instead of a sackful of presents, a plastic bag of pork sausages.
MORE recently, the dog discovered how to open our letterbox. She ignores Warehouse fliers, real estate agents' cards and community newspapers, preferring to concentrate on the mail we might actually want to read. You can imagine my delight when I came home two weeks ago to discover the remains of a cheque, shredded into dozens of tiny fluttering pieces, on the welcome mat.
Oddly, the dog is as adored outside the house as she is disliked within it. From 3pm each day, gaggles of schoolchildren cluster around the gate, swooning with delight if they succeed in tempting her out of her kennel. Anonymous admirers bring her bones. When I take the dog for a walk, passersby stop to greet her by name and engulf her in hugs, while ignoring me entirely.
Thanks to nothing more than a genetic tendency toward extreme fluffiness, she has cultivated a fan base that most of the contestants on NZ Idol can only dream of.
I have tried every piece of advice on managing this canine nutcase that I've been given, from puppy pre-schools to dog obedience courses to tips from a dog listener on television.
None of them were any more successful than my own approach, which involved screaming oaths at the dog while repeatedly clouting her over the head with a paperback copy of Enid Blyton's The Faraway Tree.
Currently, I'm experimenting with a method that involves treating both the dog and the rest of the family as a kind of urban wolf pack. You are the leader; the dog is the lowliest wolf cub.
This sounds fine in theory, but in practice I suspect I will have to tear the throat out of a live caribou with my teeth before the dog respects me enough to stop shredding my cheques.
Dog Training

But just a few weeks ago, a line from the show made me put the paper down. The terminally-cute Neela was mourning the roadside bombing death of her soldier/husband, Dr. Gallant, when she made the comment, "I can't even remember his voice."
How can that be, I wondered? I can't get my father's voice out of my head and he's been dead almost 12 years.
My dad, Herman J. Fuselier Sr., was a lifelong mechanic. But he should have been a preacher.
He had personal commandments he lived by and preached to the children whenever he had the chance. But Daddy was especially inspired on the nights he filled a tall mug full of Miller High Life.
This man knew how to enjoy his Saturday nights with a little Miller, a good Western movie or a little Sinatra, Duke Ellington or Nancy Wilson on the record player. But he never missed 7:30 a.m. Mass the next morning, although his very tired children wished that he would.
During Miller time, Daddy became a philosopher, fortune teller and sanctified preacher, all rolled into one. The Rev. Fuselier's favorite sayings included:
"The world is full of uncertainty" - That meant there would be trouble in life, but you can always overcome it.
"They're just going to have to be miserable" - That was Daddy's answer to racists, bigots and nosey people who didn't like the way he was enjoying his life.
"There's nothing more pretty than a new car, a beautiful girl and a fine race horse" - Self-explanatory.
"The good die young and the trashes stay" - The honest, hard-working people of the world seem to have all the bad luck and trouble while the criminals are healthy and care free.
"Do it and keep on doing it until you get it right" - That was Daddy's answer to shoddy work, laziness and bad grades. He also had a leather belt that could adjust the most stubborn of attitudes. My sister Kathy once had a whipping for a bad grade and my grades went up by two letters.
"Let her rip" - Some things in life you just can't control. You just have to let it go.
And last but not least, fait 'tention, boog. That's French for be careful.
I used to think "that old man doesn't know what he's talking about." But on those days when the transmission doesn't transmit, the carburetor doesn't carburate and some sap is on the phone rattling on about a late charge, Daddy's sermons come roaring back.
I'm so grateful that voice is still in my head.
Remembering the fore, fatherFor someone who, throughout my life, repeatedly stressed the importance of values like honesty, integrity and loyalty, my father, Tim Landry Sr., sure used to scare the bajeezus out of me.
Not in the traditional "scary dad" sense usually reserved for the father of whatever girl I may be dating at the time. I mean my dad used to go out of his way to physically frighten me to the point where I'd actually invent new expletives.
I can't say I blame him. Should I become a father, I'll act the same way. I'll gladly hide next to the fridge and wait for my unsuspecting 5-year-old son to walk by in his Super Mario underoos. I'll then pretend I'm a big dog and bark at him from behind, which should propel him upward at a rate fast enough to break the kitchen's gravitational pull. Such propulsion will act as a learning experience because my son, like his old man, will no doubt also dream of having the ultimate career: palentologist/astronaut/quarterback.
I remember one evening my dad was feeling especially complex-inducing. He hid behind a doorway and jumped out, screaming something original like "Boo!" I freaked out, ran to my room and was on edge for the rest of the evening. Eventually, I built up the courage to leave my room. I passed by another room that contained a coatrack. I, naturally, thought the coatrack was my father playing dead ... while standing up ... and wearing three hats. I cried for my mother who yelled at the coatrack for a good three minutes. My father then walked in from a side door, flicking his cigarette into the yard. Mom then began yelling at him. Bewildered, he could only raise his eyebrow in defense.
I also remember the time I accidentally got back at my dad by scaring him. I was 12 and he was teaching me to play golf. We were at a driving range, and he told me to focus on his swing. I focused a little too closely from behind and accidentally got clocked in the head with a three wood. I saw a flash of white as the club hit my temple. My fingers numbed as time slowed, and I collapsed to the ground. Five seconds later, nature resumed its normal speed and my father walked me to the car.
At the hospital, the doctor held up various items for me to follow with my eyes. I snuck peeks at my dad between tongue depressor wavings. I remember him pursing his lips and hanging his head as he sat in the chair next to the magazines. I had never seen him feel so terrible because he had never done anything wrong to me in his life. The doctor would say I was fine, but for that hour, my father was in agony. Seeing that kind of worry was new to me. He told me he loved me on a regular basis, but it was at this moment, I knew what it really meant.
When Daddy cleared his throatMy father never spoke much. People who knew them said it was because my mother never let him get a word in edgewise.
He always said that you'd be surprised how much you learn about people if you just listen.
He was quiet by nature and calm and even-tempered. I don't think I've ever seen him really angry. Well, only if you count the time my brother, Ronnie, and I, ages 4 and 7, respectively, decided to drive the DeSoto through the gate he had just opened. I took the steering wheel; Ronnie took the gas pedal. Fortunately, we hadn't mastered the concept of the clutch and gear shift.
I remember so clearly the angry tone in his voice, if not the words, because it was so rare. I don't remember any repercussions.
There probably weren't any.
My mother, who had no problem expressing her disapproval, usually handled disciplinary matters. If we misbehaved too much, she would pull out the traditional "Wait until your Daddy gets home."
In retrospect, it strikes me as funny that the threat worked so well. I'm not sure what we expected, since he never yelled or even fussed at us. But you could tell when you were testing his patience. He would clear his throat.
That sound was enough to stop us in our tracks. I guess the idea of incurring his disapproval was enough.
Daddy didn't believe in corporal punishment, long before the notion was in vogue. No big philosophical reasons. He just said it never worked on him and just made him more determined to do whatever had precipitated the punishment.
It seems that in his youth, he had been quite the delinquent, fighting at school, carrying on feuds with other teens. It was a side of this gentle, loving, hard-working, responsible father that his four children had never seen. It mystified us.
When I think of Daddy, all I see is that little half-smile of his that was our reward just for being us.
There was another side of him, another phase in his life that was incongruent with his gentle nature.
Daddy served with the U.S. Army in the Pacific during World War II. He hopped from the Aleutian Islands of Alaska to islands with exotic names like Kawajalen. We still have an 8 by 10 photo of him and his buddy, whose name has long been forgotten, on the island of Okinawa.
He would regale us with stories of weathering storms in pup tents and swimming in the ocean. We wondered where the combat part came in. He was one of those guys you hear about who won't talk about it.
One day, when I was about 12, I was looking for my birth certificate - I don't remember why. I stumbled across his discharge papers and in the course of reading them, discovered he had received a medal. He had never mentioned it.
When I asked my mother about it, she became agitated and even angry. She forbade me to ask him about it.
I never did.
Now that he's gone, sometimes, I wish I had.
In my father's eyesThe truth is, I may never know.
I avoided responsibility as a child. Taking out the trash, cleaning the bathrooms, mowing the grass - they were all my chores. Somehow they all got done while I stayed in my room trying to master another guitar riff in a Black Sabbath, Cream, Iron Maiden or Metallica track.
Dad didn't let his disappointment go unnoticed. It's amazing how much he could communicate with a simple stare, the way his eyes could dig into my chest and squeeze my heart. Filled with youthful pride, I'd shrug it off and get back to what mattered most to me - music, college, friends.
Something happened in my 20s. Weekends brought about unofficial traditions. Fishing trips to the levee near Lake Dauterive. Golf or football on the tube on a Sunday afternoon. No matter where we were, somehow Dad and I always found an excuse to talk about work, family, friends. There was a life lesson in every word he uttered, but I was still too immature to realize it and understand the value in what he said.
Somewhere along the way what he thought of me started to matter. His disappointment in my decisions cut like a knife. Still, I sought his consultation on just about everything. I didn't always follow his advice, and usually paid the price. His stare said "I told you so" louder than his words ever could.
His eyes said much more as I grew older. They told me how much he loved me when the words just wouldn't come. They expressed the joy in his heart when I earned my college diploma and started my first full-time job. And, they showed the concern in his heart when I underwent surgery.
A careless driver struck Dad as he crossed the street on foot to go to work one cool, damp November morning in 2003. The force of the impact caused him to suffer a severe stroke. He lapsed into a coma almost immediately.
Doctors at a New Iberia hospital told my mother, sister and I that Dad would not survive the night. His injuries were too severe. He was transferred to a Lafayette hospital to have the diagnosis confirmed.
I made the 30-minute drive from New Iberia to Lafayette a million times growing up, a million more as a teen and college student. The trip behind the ambulance that day seemed like forever. The road looked different.
Maybe it was the tears in my eyes. Maybe it was the glare of the flashing lights. Maybe it was the realization that the man I looked to as a beacon in this confusion we call life would no longer be just a phone call or short drive away to guide me through whatever I faced.
I felt alone for the first time. I felt the weight of my family's stares as they looked to this immature, terrified boy to be the man of the family, to be the one they leaned on, the one they counted on for support and guidance.
The days turned into weeks, the weeks months. By April 2004, Dad awoke from his coma in a New Orleans hospital and began the long journey to regain what physical and mental faculties he possibly could.
I watched him struggle to close his right hand into a fist. I stood silent in a corner with tears clouding in my eyes as he tried in vain time and again to remember my name, but the therapist's question went unanswered.
Then, one day, while half asleep in the chair next to his hospital bed, it came.
"Trevis." It was a whisper at first. The second attempt came in clear. And, somehow, just that whisper confirmed I had a second chance, a chance many never get.
Dad came home in June 2004, seven months after his accident. He still has limited use of his hands, arms and legs. He spends most of his days in a wheelchair and a hospital bed. Some days he knows the family, days he most resembles the proud, healthy, active man I once knew.
The truth is, I may never know what it feels like to hear my father say that I make him proud, that I've earned his respect and made up for the disappointment I caused him as a child. I may never again hear him say, "I love you, son."
But, I know what it feels like to see his smile when he opens his eyes and realizes it's my lips on his forehead, my hand in his, my voice saying, "Hey, Pop. It's the boy. I love you."
What's in a name?If you asked my dad, he'd probably tell you that he's not crazy about cats. The stray cats in his neighborhood, however, know the real truth.
Since my brothers and I have moved out of the house, my childhood home has become a halfway house for troubled felines. And although my dad likes to blame all of the four-legged acquisitions on my mother, he has become quite attached to his extended litter.
From Romeo to Trouble to CoCo, the Gruse household has been the home to an eclectic mix of temperaments and meows.
But one cat really stands out above the others.
During one of my regular phone calls home from college, my mother told me that a kitten had shown up in the yard. By this time, I had heard the story before, and I knew what she really meant: We found a stray. We've been feeding it, and we're about to take it to the vet for shots and neutering.
I just accepted the fact that this refugee had become a Gruse. I knew the cat would soon be receiving Christmas presents and a spot on my parents' bed along with the growing pack of recently adopted furry creatures.
"So, what are you going to name him," I asked my mother.
"Well," my mom said, followed by an uncomfortable pause. "Your father wants to name him Irish."
"Irish?" I asked. "Why would you name a cat Irish?"
"Well, your dad thinks he looks Irish," my mom said with an enthusiasm that couldn't mask her own confusion.
"Mom, how can a cat look Irish?"
"I don't know," my mom said softer. "But you know your father."
I knew there was no point even addressing the fact that a cat doesn't really have an ethnicity, so I decided to just focus on the name.
"Maybe you could give the cat an Irish name," I suggested.
I heard my mother yell the idea to my father.
I could tell the comment had made an impact.
"Like O'Malley or Blarney," I said.
My mom repeated the names to my father.
After a moment, I hear my dad shout out.
"Kevin," he said.
"What?" I heard my mom's muffled voice ask.
"You're dad says Kevin," she explained over the phone.
"Is Kevin an Irish name?" I asked.
I then heard my dad explaining in the background that he had known several Irish guys named Kevin.
"There was Kevin O'Toole, Kevin Sullivan, Kevin ..."
"Mom, " I tried to plead.
"We're not naming a cat Kevin," my mom said to both my dad and me.
"Well, the cat is either Kevin or Irish," my dad shouted.
My parents bickered for a while while I sat quietly on the other end of the phone, but my dad wouldn't budge.
In the end, the "Irish-looking" cat was stuck with the name Kevin.
Kevin was a part of my family's life for almost 15 years, but I could never call him by his real name. He was always "Kevbo" or "Kevvy" to me.
The story about my parents' oddly named cat has become a bit of Gruse lore. I always swore that when I got pets of my own, I'd give them less embarrassing names.
Last year I adopted a two-year-old dog from animal rescue. For some reason, his name was Whiffenpoof. When I first brought him home, I intended to change it - but he already had lived the first two years of his life with the name. He knew it. He answered to it. He accepted it.
I usually call him Whiffen or Whiffy. But he's definitely a Whiffenpoof.
When I told my dad about the new addition to my household, he only had one comment.
"And you thought Kevin was a weird name."
Originally published June 18, 2006
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Herman Fuselier's father, Herman J. Fuselier Sr., was a mechanic who easily could have been a preacher.
Tim Landry's father, Tim Sr. and the rest of his Acadiana band, Horizon, circa 1977.
Judy Bastien's father, Wilson Higginbotham at age 18 in 1934.
Submitted photo
Raymond Badeaux poses with his toy poodle, Missy.
Submitted photo
Dennis and Monte Gruse are the proud parents of numerous cats.
Dog Training

Veterinarian Brian Silverlieb, DVM, Town Clerk Cindy Simon, Veterinary Assistant Mary Simpson, and Cairn terrier Wafer gathered at Edmond Town Hall earlier this week to remind local dog and cat owners about a low-cost rabies clinic set for this Saturday. Dog owners can also take advantage of the opportunity to not only obtain necessary rabies vaccinations, but to license their pooches as well. -Bee Photo, Voket
Newtown dog owners can take advantage of a special session being offered Saturday to get their dog licenses and rabies shots at the same time. Cat owners will not be left out, since local felines are also invited to the low-cost rabies clinic on that day.
The town clerk's office will be conducting a low-cost rabies vaccination clinic on Saturday, June 17, from 1 to 3 pm at the Edmond Town Hall Gymnasium. There are no residency requirements.
Those attending Saturday's low-cost rabies clinic may also purchase the new 2006 dog licenses at that time. Public Act 91-46 requires all cats and dogs three months of age or older to be vaccinated against rabies.
Although rabies is rare among humans, it is almost always fatal.
The virus, in the saliva of infected animals, enters a victim through a skin puncture or open wound, and it affects the central nervous system. Rabies moved up the East Coast in 1991 and has been detected in every town in the state.
Since then, more than 5,000 animals test positive in Connecticut, and of these, nearly 4,000 have been raccoons and around 1,000 have been skunks. The remaining several hundred cases have been confirmed in cats, foxes, woodchucks, cows, dogs, horses, sheep, coyote, goats, squirrel, deer, otter, ferret, bobcat, and rabbit.
It can be legitimately argued, however, that these numbers represent only a percentage of the total, due to the fact that not all animals suspected to have rabies are tested after their deaths. Members of the Connecticut Veterinary Medical Association donate their time to the clinics as a public service in order to help protect the health of Connecticut's residents and their pets.
The cost is $15 - cash only - per animal. Due to the increasing incidence of rabies, written proof of prior vaccination for rabies or a current dog license must be presented to qualify for a three-year certificate. The rabies certificate must be presented; tags are not acceptable.
A one-year certificate will be given to all others. This is in compliance with the Directive of the State Veterinarian.
State law requires that all pets vaccinated for the first time in 2005 must be vaccinated again in 2006; check your pets' rabies vaccination certificates for the expiration date.
Collar tags and certificates of vaccination will be provided as required by law. All dogs must be on leashes and cats must be in carriers.
And if a dog's shots are already up-to-date but the dog is unlicensed, Ms Simon reminds dog owners that all dogs six months of age and over must get licensed annually during the month of June. The new 2006 licenses are now available at the Town Clerk's office Monday through Friday, 8 am to 4:30 pm.
The State of Connecticut requires that all dogs must have rabies vaccinations. Therefore, when licensing a dog it will be necessary to present a current rabies vaccination certificate and if licensing a dog for the first time, it will be necessary to present the spaying or neutering certificate in order to obtain the lower license fee.
The fees are $8 for a neutered male or spayed female and $19 for others. Licenses may be ordered by mail by sending a self-addressed stamped envelope with a check or money order for the proper amount and the following information: rabies certificate, spay or neuter certificate, owner's name, phone number, address, dog's name, breed, age of dog, color markings, and sex of dog.
Residents may also send or bring to the office a self-addressed stamped envelope to have a reminder sent next year at this time.
During the first week of July, the town clerk will be drawing a license from all those that have registered through June 30 to determine who will be the #1 Dog of Newtown. Any dog licensed in June can qualify for the honor, and the special doggy goodie basket that is presented to the #1 dog and his or her master.
For additional information on licensing or the rabies clinic, contact the town clerk's office at 270-4210.
Dog Training