I’ve had children now for about a decade. Ten years that have passed both as fleetingly as a Christmas morning and as painfully long as a Sarah Jessica Parker movie marathon.

Though certainly not as long as others, my sentence has provided me with a passing knowledge of the parental arts; like the D+ grades that symbolize my senior year of high school. Certainly not the marks I would get if I applied myself, but enough to graduate.

When one is blessed with the weird and wonderful results of reproduction, one finds that their offspring become the favored topic of conversation not only within one’s marriage but with friends, co-workers, grocery store clerks and Tony the guy that’s always in the same seat at the end of the bar.

And there is something that often comes up in these conversations which, to put frankly, has always bugged the hell out of me. At some point when one is lamenting or bragging about one’s children, the other person will say:

“Yeah, I know just how you feel. I mean, I don’t have kids myself, but I have a dog and we went through the same kind of thing with her.”

Now, I am not trying to draw battle lines between breeders and non-breeders, between actual parents and… well… pet owners. But… there is a difference. The last time I checked, you still couldn't euthanize a human when they become surly, slow-moving teenagers.

I’ve always bristled at the assertion that raising a child -- a sentient human being bestowed with all the spiritual, emotional and top-of-the-food-chain attributes therein -- is even remotely similar to raising a dog -- a beast fed animal byproducts, restrained with collar and chain. I found it more than mildly insulting if not so ridiculous.

And then, last spring, we got two dogs to go with our two daughters.

I'm not about to agree with the more pet-obsessed contingent of our society that treat animals as if they were so morally and spiritually superior to humans; who care more for Boopie the genetically-engineered lap dog than they do the smelly homeless guy outside the supermarket. The differences between dog and human child, between purchased pet and fruit-of-thy-loin, are too great to name.

But, humbly, I have come to learn that there are some interesting similarities between kids and pups. Such as…

When babes, you just can’t take your eyes off them; all you want to do is cuddle and kiss them. Especially their little noses and feet. However, the feet part fades over time as they learn to walk through fields of their own feces.

When water is involved, drinking or bathing, it goes everywhere but where it is intended.

They often get so worked up with excitement and love and joy and happiness that they can’t contain their unbridled energy anymore! So they bite you.

They fight all the time. Seriously. All the time. And rarely do you know why.

They constantly beg for food. And their own food is never good enough. They always want what is on your plate or in your glass.

When they are with each other, they want to kill each other. But when they are apart, they only seem to care about where the other one is and when they are coming back.

They always want what the other one has. Socks, laptop, treat, rock. So one takes it away from the other. Which offers the rare occasion when you know exactly why they are fighting.

They are always underfoot, standing exactly where you need to stand or walk; they beg attention moving before you in unison with your desired direction like a bothersome cloud of gnats.

Within the briefest of moments, they can be so cuddly cute and loving that you can’t imagine your existence without them, and so frustratingly annoying you just want to stuff them in a bag and throw them off a bridge.

The floor is a perfectly acceptable and preferred place for their toys and abundant stock of personal accessories.

The destruction of clothes is more important than the washing or keeping of them.

They interrupt your conversations at the worst possible time and for the most mundane reasons.

They are in their most perfect and beautiful state when they are asleep.

For best results, walk daily.

The prospect of bringing them home and into your comfortable life can be frightening and paralyzing. But once you have them there, nestled next to you on the couch and within your heart, you understand the greatness and smallness of life in a way you never thought possible.

Until they pass wind.


PATRICK CANEDAY can’t juggle. Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Friend him on Facebook. Read more random thoughts at www.patrickcaneday.com.

It's not that I didn’t want a puppy. Just that I was reluctant, concerned about the responsibility and nightly barking. And available space in our ever-shrinking house. And the mess. And what would happen if it ever got out the front door and into the big, scary world on its own.

Yet we've somehow managed to survive human children despite these same fears. Besides, I am outnumbered in my home three to one. So last spring during a temporary parental vacation from sanity, we brought home not one but two puppies; the thresholds for love and pain being sides of the same coin, who’s counting?

We got them from a “rescue,” though I use the term loosely. The only thing puppies as cute as these needed rescuing from was overexposure as “Your Daily Dog” in Facebook posts or cuddle asphyxiation by overzealous kids.

The drive home with the pups was not unlike the drive home from the hospital the day either of my daughters was born. Glassy-eyed parents wondering what the hell they’d just gotten themselves into; mystified that anyone would trust them to keep anything more than a houseplant alive; the smell of urine wafting from the backseat as we tried to come up with just the right name.

Mortitia? Beelzebub? Abstinence? Deduction? Pimple?

We made it easy on ourselves with the daughters: Thing 1 and Thing 2. So we let them pick the names.

The black and white terrier bore a striking resemblance to a Lilliputian Claude Rains as Captain Renault in “Casablanca” mixed with the madcap exuberance of Salvador Dali. Isabella, Izzy for short, she was christened by Thing 1. And the world is her salt lick.

The russet-colored, marshmallow-breasted shepherd was barely able to stand on her own four feet. Perhaps because it was her favorite soda in the brief lifetime of a child’s whim, Thing 2 dubbed her Dr. Pepper. But since the name comes with no advertising revenue (I checked), we just call her Pepper.

Each pup still, these many months later, has a permanent smile on their smug little snouts; their very presence in our home a practical joke at my expense.

The best advice I got from the pet shop clerk on Day 1 when I wandered in dazed and confused with nary a milkbone in our house: Crate the puppies. Had we crated Thing 1 at night when we brought her home, the wife and I might not have had to abandon our apartment's sole bedroom to her after the stork arrived and sleep on a futon in the living room.

We’ve forsaken the back porch and yard to our canine squatters, a peace treaty that has proven invaluable. Especially when one has found a twig the other simply must have. Though Pepper was a runt, she gained 50 pounds after her first meal and easily dwarfs Izzy in a skirmish. But she’s hindered by the gangly legs of a teenage boy and dangerously poor peripheral vision. Izzy, with her low center of gravity, speed and innate caginess, strikes with the accuracy of a mosquito on meth.

Their battles are mighty and take on hysterical dimensions when waged on the hardwood floor. Imagine Bambi on ice trying to sever Thumper’s jugular. I only wish my kids -- or I -- could get over a fight as quickly as these dogs do.

                Pepper is the advance team in their covert assaults. Long and lean, able to reach morsels on the kitchen counter. She knocks them down and Izzy swoops in to consume the bounty. They are a peculiar yet symbiotic pairing. Think Laurel and Hardy. Kramden and Norton. Ren and Stimpy.

To my chagrin, for Halloween my ladies bedazzled them with costumes: Pepper a felt fabric hot dog, complete with mustard, ketchup and relish; Izzy a miniature pumpkin. Dear gourd. So I guess we’re now “that” family.

My most fascinating discovery? Styrofoam in, Styrofoam out. I learned this digestive truism upon finding the yard dotted with what looked like morsels of rocky road. Thankfully, the destroyed packing foam in the garage warned me otherwise.

My most welcome discovery? Seeing Thing 1 and Thing 2 playing with them, curling up contentedly on the couch with their first dogs. And on rare occasion picking up rocky road in the backyard.

And as my two human Things grow older and less enamored with their father, it is nice to come home to little critters who think you’re the greatest thing in the world. Even if you’ve only been gone five minutes.

So it's not that I don’t like our dogs. Just that… well… you get the picture.



PATRICK CANEDAY thinks acid-wash jeans will make a comeback. Friend him on Facebook. Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

     The internet offers so many things: convenient shopping, social media, up-to-the-minute news, entertainment -- both silly and salacious.
     But it has also become an increasingly useful tool in the preservation and expansion of democracy. Look no further than the recent Facebook fueled uprisings that toppled Hosni Mubarek in Egypt.  And closer to home, the city council chambers of Pensacola, Florida; a city half the size of Burbank and a quarter that of Glendale. Thanks to the internet and viral videos, the seeds of unchecked government control are being prevented from taking root there.
     If you haven't seen it yet, go to YouTube and find the video of Father Nathan Monk addressing the Pensacola City Council. Originally he was there to speak against the mayor’s proposed city ordinance banning camping on city property (i.e. sleeping overnight in the park), bathing in public restrooms and prohibiting the seeking of handouts and donations in city streets. Many, like Father Monk, saw it as a blatant discriminatory crackdown on the homeless.
     But after Council President Sam Hall unceremoniously dismissed several speakers from the chambers for speaking to this topic, Monk took his allotted time before the council to talk about every American’s right to free speech before our elected officials. A position which Hall felt was “off topic” and therefore out of order. With an angry gavel, he ordered Monk to leave and had him surrounded by several sheriff's deputies. Monk’s non-violent and respectful refusal to leave the lectern during his allotted time is what has caused this video to spread. 
     No doubt there are those who use their time at the pulpit to angrily espouse their opinions, to hurl insults and share nonsensical manifestos. Many cross the line in council meetings all across America. The people in the chamber on the Pensacola video bear a striking resemblance to the folks you might see week after week attending our local council meetings. And that's why I bring light to this story from the panhandle.
     If you watch Father Monk, or any of the speakers, you won’t see violence or undue venom. You won’t see crazed conspiracy theorists or even Jimmy Stewart ala "Mr. Smith." You will see intelligent, passionate, concerned citizens speaking their minds in their own unique, rational voices.
     And for that they would be silenced.
     There’s a troubling wave crossing our land, one of fear for our civil rights. Some people cite for example the recent passage of the National Defense Authorization Act that allows for the indefinite detention of suspected terrorists, including U.S. citizens, and the building of supposed FEMA internment camps to house civil disobeyers.
     I don't subscribe to conspiracy theories or notions of covert attempts to create a police state. But I do subscribe to the freedoms that America was founded upon, fundamental rights that I believe are still working for us.
     To paraphrase Winston Churchill, we can’t pretend that democracy is perfect or all-wise. It may in fact be the worst form of government. Except for all those other forms that have been tried and failed throughout history.
     And it ultimately relies on those it governs to keep it working right.
     America is not perfect. Lines -- like borders and regulations -- get blurred and it can be hard to discern what is ultimately just and right. But in this case, banning the mundane activities of those who are homeless in an effort to be rid of them, is simply wrong. And so is the repressive way in which some politicians wield their gavel and their power.
     As more people see this video it should serve as a warning for us all to preserve our democratic rights locally, nationally and globally.

     I’ve attended our city council meetings, heard people ramble off topic, get angry and draw curious analogies that don’t apply to the topic at hand. And always I’ve seen a council that takes the time to listen, to hear people out, to give citizens their due time to freely speak before those that can make a difference in their lives. Agree with them or not, they’ve done a fine job representing the diverse communities they serve and respecting the rights of those they represent.


     But should that change, they may find themselves on YouTube and written about by a columnist on the other side of the country.


PATRICK CANEDAY wants it to snow again. He can be reached at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Friend him on Facebook. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

                I'm back.
                And I can now let you in on why I needed a break.
Mercury was in retrograde.

                I knew you'd understand.

                A planet is in retrograde when its movement across our sky appears to be going in reverse of its normal path. This apparent shift in trajectory can be disconcerting and troubling to the observer. It happens with Mercury three to four times each year. And it happens with earthlings at least that many times each week.
                I leave it to street corner astronomers to explain the phenomenon, but astrologers (and yes, I did just this week learn the difference between the two) will tell you of the myriad quandaries that manifest during this cosmic confluence.
                According to those in the know, while Mercury -- "the universal trickster" -- is in retrograde you can expect electrical equipment and machinery to self-destruct; software crashes, traffic jams, emails are lost; your 8-track player chews up your favorite Mac Davis album; you miss appointments and flights and get bad haircuts. It is the star-watchers answer to Murphy's Law.
                In the span of six weeks, the following otherwise dependable devices around my home decided it was time to collectively occupy Malfunction Town: home computer, laptop, washing machine, dryer, refrigerator, toaster, garage door, the rear passenger window of my wife's Saturn, the little squirty things on the hood of my truck that wash the windshield, and my iPhone has been curiously slow.
                Not to mention, my trusty barbershop in Toluca Lake went out of business.
                I was at Sear's shopping for appliances so often, the sales associates fought over whose house I would go to for Christmas.
                While the actual dates of this latest retrograde phase were only from November 24 to December 14, there is said to be a period of transition before and after in which Mercury's antics may still occur. So I'm using that to cover pretty much all of 2010 and '11 and at least the first few months of '12.
                Now I normally don't buy into this zodiac stuff. But you have to admit, this is all too strange and fluky. It also helps to explain the less than stellar box office for "The Muppets," Kim Kardashian's surprising divorce, Rick Perry and Herman Cain's memory lapses (Libya? Libya? And what was the third thing…?), Newt's rise in the polls and the inability of Congress to reach consensus on a balanced budget, the payroll tax or the color of the sky.
                Coincidence? I think not.
                Other notable historical events that took place during retrograde periods: The Bush-Gore election (See?! It wasn't Karl Rove messing with voting machines after all!), Game 1 of the 1988 World Series (luckily it was the Oakland A's who took the brunt on that one), the Industrial Revolution (just the first half though), my ouster from the 7th grade spelling bee on the first word, Nicolas Cage's career since 2003. And Disco.
                And since the brain is the control center of the human machine, I feel at liberty to add the following personal malfunctions: forgetfulness, laziness, confusion, frustration, ambivalence, melancholy, complacency and just about every other emotional malady from which I've suffered since birth. Or at least puberty.
                Armchair and internet stargazers will also tell you that during this time of "revision" (a more pleasant term than "personal chaos") one should buckle down and go with the flow. Treat it as a time to watch situations unfold around you and gather information. Let the windstorms pass, then pick up the pieces.
                I'm not going to say that a two month sabbatical has cured me from any of the above afflictions. I'm still as lazy, confused, uninspired and short-tempered as ever. While off I didn't write the great American novel (I hear that bastard Hemingway wrote "The Sun Also Rises" over one gin-soaked weekend); I didn't volunteer to help the needy, lose ten pounds or advance past level 7-15 of Angry Birds.
     But I did learn something: to survive life with some semblance of sanity, from time to time you have to let it pass you by. Not often, but on occasion, it helps to let the chaos of the world run its course while you sit back and watch the awkward dance from an uncomfortable, accusing bench at the wall of the junior high gym.

Sometimes it’s good to be idle and refuse to partake in the folly of man.

                So, I’m back. Like it or not. Tune in next week when I'll either regale you with too much detail about the odd things my dogs eat and reproduce to the wonderment of my family, or rant about something topical but not so relevant that I saw on Facebook.

                Mercury is back on track, and a new year is upon us. Let's see if we can't do better with this one.

PATRICK CANEDAY writes. Nuf said. Friend him on Facebook. Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

          Foggy mornings. Searing days. Cool evenings.
          Thus marks the seasons' change in our SoCal bubble; where summer and autumn wage battle, neither letting us know who will win until winter’s had her say. The seasons don't change so much as argue for two months; one day cold and rainy, the next blistering hot. Pull out the extra blankets, flannel shirts and wool sweaters, then nature's whim peels the clouds away and smothers us with her stifling heat, making a mockery of our plans.
          Though we strain against it, our souls are umbilically tethered to this primordial pulse. Never steady, always wrestling. Wrestling with chores and responsibilities, demands and desires, choices and decisions, in a world with no pause button.
          I've been thinking a lot lately about what I do here in this column, the responsibility that comes with this gift to write and be read for which I am eternally grateful.
          I’ve been wondering whether I am living up to the task, giving this honor everything it deserves. And frankly, I don’t feel I am. I don’t feel my contribution to our human dialogue has been up to snuff for a little while (using the phrase “up to snuff” is a perfect example). There are probably many reasons for this mood – the confluence of work and so many other responsibilities. But, more than anything else, I think it has to do with the elevated goals we set for ourselves and how harshly we criticize ourselves when we fail to meet them.
          Over the three years this newspaper has graciously, and curiously, published my opinions and observations, I’ve written a bit about politics, about religion, pop culture, local and global issues. But mostly I’ve written about myself; a remarkably unremarkable person swimming laps in the Petri dish of life like everyone else, in hopes you see yourself and your own struggles. Which is why I’m writing about my thoughts on change now.
          We all struggle with the daily checklist: Put in a solid, productive day’s work for a (hopefully) reasonable day's pay; be present – physically and emotionally – for our children, spouse and loved ones; uncover and pursue our passions as much as possible; take time to exercise, recharge and renew; not to mention laundry, shopping, cooking, toenail clipping and such countless tasks that otherwise mar the canvas of a day. I know no one who succeeds at all of these. I certainly don’t.
          One of my struggles is to find something to offer on the altar of social discourse here in this column each week. And since I feel I haven’t been living up to my goals in that area, I think I need a break. 
          It’s not you. It’s me. I promise.
          I need a little time to pull back, survey what I've done here and chart where I want to go. A friend asked me if I needed to find my muse again. Maybe I do. And maybe with a new job and so much else to do, I just need to simplify things; take one step backward in order to dance forward.
          There have been no great traumas or tragedies, no life-altering events. I’m just a little drained creatively and need a jolt to the system in hopes of rediscovering why I do this. And autumn, with its colors of change and nesting tendencies, seems an ideal time for that.
          So, with the blessing and encouragement of the editors -- who promise not to find anyone more talented and devoted to fill my place -- I’m taking a little sabbatical. Doesn’t that sounds nice? Sabbatical. Would that we all could simply forestall a set of duties for a season then come back to them anew and refreshed.  
          This will be my last column for a couple months. I’ll be writing during that time. Blog posts, perhaps. Random postings on Facebook and elsewhere. And hopefully some other things that have been brewing in the slow drip coffeemaker of my mind. Look me up. And look for me to bring you more Small Wonders again in January 2012. 
          I don’t know what I hope to accomplish with this time off. As I write these words, all I can think of are the thousand reasons why I should push through these feelings and keep writing. But choices are like that. The only way to find out if you’ve made the right one is to walk through the door.
          So, with that, I’ll see you on the other side, when winter’s finally settled the argument.

PATRICK CANEDAY will miss you. Stay in touch with him on Facebook, at www.patrickcaneday.com and patrickcaneday@gmail.com.

          Last week in my little corner of your local newspaper I contemplated the ills of society; I offered my opinion on humanity’s great downfall, be it political, spiritual or social in nature. Namely, that all of us are so absorbed in our own interests and “realities” we can’t be bothered to consider the needs, beliefs or concerns of others.
          Thanks to everyone for their feedback to my latest delusion of grandeur. And, no, I was not dropped on my head as a child. I fell. A lot.
          Now I’m not so naive to think any of our problems will be solved by a new seat warmer in the White House, the adoption of a new tax code, the limitation or expansion of certain inalienable rights or by holding hands globally and singing “Kumbaya” until pixie dust rains down from the heavens.
          But I do believe there is something that has the power to change the world: a little civility. A little, grassroots campaign at good old-fashioned manners.
          “But how?!” you ask with bated breath. Well, I’ll tell you. And for this one you ladies can take a break. I’ll be talking to the men-folk.
          Guys, help me out here. There’s a little thing I was taught that you always do for the ladies. Open the door for them. This nicety was pounded into me at a young age by my female-dominated family. I didn’t like it then, thought it was silly, pointless and a waste of time. But it stuck.
           And if I were to listen to many of the women whom I hold the door for each week, I am apparently in the minority of men. While holding the door open for a lady at the office or store, I'm often met with a look of shock and awe.
           “It’s so nice to know there are still gentlemen out there,” they’ll say with all the silky gentility such a statement implies. Imagine Kate Winslet as a character in any Jane Austen novel. That’s what it sounds like. Picturing Kate Winslet in a corset helps.
          And I am always equally shocked by their surprised reaction. I’m no Cyrano, just ask my better, fairer half. I’ve always assumed that all men were taught to open doors for ladies. If I am the poster boy for chivalry, the world is in a sorrier state than I ever imagined.
           Seriously, guys. You can’t look up from your Blackberry for two seconds to hold a door for a lady? No wonder this country is more philosophically and emotionally divided than it has ever been; where the mere mention of a differing view is met with venomous ridicule and resistance. If we’ve lost our sense of decency at the subatomic level of common courtesy, how can we expect to agree on things like universal healthcare, corporate responsibility or X Factor vs. American Idol?
           Not only should more men be holding doors open for ladies, but we need to be teaching the next generation of young men such social graces. Don't have the energy or skill set to do that? There are other ways. Besides having this stuff beaten into my head at home, I was forced to attend cult-like, militant, social behavioral aversion therapy.
           That’s right. Cotillion.
           In a series of evenings at the Tuesday Afternoon Club presided over by a flamboyant, doting peacock who used castanets to get our attention, young gentlemen and ladies were inaugurated into the finer points of life: how to bow, curtsy, waltz and fox trot. All while wearing uncomfortable shoes and clip-on ties.
           It was the most miserable four weeks of my life. I hated it, thought it was ridiculous and did it only because I was forced to against my will by a parent hoping some good would come of it. Nothing a few years of therapy and a daily Xanax drip couldn’t cure. But, long after the shameful mocking of my peers wore off, a few things of value did stick.
          I know where to place my hands during a slow dance. I walk on the street side of the sidewalk when accompanied by a fair maiden. And I still hold the door open for a lady. And they appreciate it. Win-win situations are rare in this age, and this is an easy one.
          It may be the elevator on a busy workday, the car door for wife, daughters or friends, or letting a lady walk in to Mario’s Deli ahead of you to take the ticket number that should have been yours. Hold the door open. You’ll be doing your part to make the world a slightly better place.
          The greatest journeys, whether humanity's or our own, began with a single, small step. Open the door and let someone else take it.


PATRICK CANEDAY is running low of things to say. Friend him on Facebook. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com. Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com.