LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND FURRY

If you have young children, it’s only a matter of time until you are subjected to pleas for a pet. Dog, cat, gerbil, baby alligator -- it’s all pretty much the same.

“Daddy, look what followed me home from school today.”

“Why that’s--“

“Can we keep him? Huh? Can we?”

“--the Buckman’s Schnauzer.”

“No it’s not.”

“Then why does this dog tag say ‘Property of the Buckmans’?”

Like many parents before us, we succumbed to the pressure, ignored our better judgment and purchased a dog for our oldest son. Two years and an endless supply of carpet stains later, our younger son tricked us into adding a cat to the mix.

“Daddy, look what followed me home from school today.”

“A kitten?”

“Yep.”

“Hey, isn’t that one of those kittens your teacher was trying to give away?

“Uh…not really.”

So now the dog chases the cat around the house -- at least until it has the little thing cornered. Then, the cat turns into the dog’s worst nightmare.

Still, I’ve grown to love these two furballs, and I now consider them an important part of the family. I play with them, sneak them treats from the dinner table and generally engage in a healthy higher species-lower species relationship.

But I’ve noticed that some pet owners do not know where to draw the line.

I’m speaking specifically of the citizens of Palm Beach, Florida. In this affluent community, the average home costs well over $1 million, the women schedule cosmetic surgery like they’re scheduling a manicure and the men dabble in thoroughbreds (both the four-legged and two-legged varieties).

The dogs in Palm Beach live better than most people I know. Many have their own chefs, recline on poolside chaise lounges and travel by limousine and yacht. For kicks (or is it bites?), they attend lavish birthday parties thrown in honor of one of their furry brethren. The canine social calendar also includes an annual charity ball and a yearly Halloween celebration.

Now, one Palm Beach resident has even created a society magazine to publicize and report on all the purebred social events. Published by Joanne Cutner, the owner of a well-groomed Lhasa Apso named Mr. Churchill, "Palm Beach Pet Society" features photos of more than 100 housepets at home and at play. Included among these is a snapshot of the editor -- a spectacled Mr. Churchill -- working on the computer at his desk.

Okay, let me state up front that a person who names their dog or cat “Mr.” anything is immediately suspect in my mind. Mr. Waddles, Mr. McMuffin, Mr. Churchill -- I don’t care. Anyone committing this offense should be collared, then pelted with chewed up dog toys, especially the ones that make those obnoxious squeaks.

My bigger complaint, however, is with the unbridled decadence exhibited by Palm Beach pet owners. Despite the fact that money appears to grow on trees in this zip code, or maybe because of it, there are areas in Palm Beach and the surrounding communities where you can find plenty of homeless people. It wouldn’t surprise me if some held signs reading: “I will work for your dog’s food.”

To spend $10,000 on a dog’s birthday party, then see it glorified in a 44-page glossy magazine, simply seems wrong to me. At this year’s Halloween bash, 400 pooches were in attendance, each one in costume. Of course, no two dogs dressed alike.

Now, I’m sure many Palm Beach residents make significant contributions to charity. I guess my point here is this: If they are spending thousands of dollars on their poodle’s coming out party, then maybe they aren’t contributing enough.

How many human beings could be fed with the money spent on the annual Halloween party? How many units of low-income housing could be built with the money spent annually on doggie birthday parties?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, but in Palm Beach, Florida, this much is certain: The poor and the homeless are not man’s best friend.

(c) Marc L. Prey 2002
All rights reserved.

O MOE, WHERE ART THOU?

If you are anything like me –- approaching middle age faster than the Japanese bullet train –- then you probably grew up watching the classics on television.

Of course, by “classics” I’m referring to “The Little Rascals”, “Three Stooges” and “Abbott and Costello”.

These shows were an after-school staple in my neighborhood. If it was cold or rainy out, we would park it in front of the nineteen-inch and check out the antics of Moe, Larry and Curly, or Spanky, Alfalfa and the beautiful Darla (Britney Spears, eat your heart out).

Now you have to remember, this was in the time before cable (the “Dark Ages”, according to my kids). In fact, there was only one channel broadcasting children’s programming during weekday afternoons (two if Venus was aligned with Mars).

Still, it didn’t matter one poke-in-the-eye that we’d seen each episode ten times before. These shows involved real people doing real things and making us really laugh.

Just thinking about Moe using the width of his hand to block Larry’s two-fingered eye poke makes me chuckle. Or, Curly slapping himself repeatedly across the face before knocking down a group of bad guys like they were bowling pins.

Things are different today. Everything is animated, and most of it is fantasy. You’ve got a group of talking babies (“Rugrats”), a boy with a football-shaped head (“Hey Arnold”) and a comic sea sponge (“SpongeBob”).

Speaking of the latter, someone please explain to me how the sea creatures populating this underwater world can visit a beach on the ocean bottom where waves lap against the shore? I’m sure I could solve such riddles if I’d only spent as much time with my physics book as I did with the Stooges.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not completely opposed to today’s children’s programming. I’ve actually found myself laughing at the Sponge. And many “Rugrat” episodes seem to contain a positive message (though calling one another “dumb babies” would not be high on my list). But I also lament the fact that my kids are not exposed to some of the classic shows of my youth.

So this summer I rented a few videos containing episodes of “The Little Rascals” and “Three Stooges” prior to taking the family on a driving vacation. Thanks to our portable tv-vcr, my children were going to enjoy some good, old-fashioned entertainment during the trip.

"You're gonna love this stuff," I promised them as they examined the videos.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"What's a stooge?"

The answer to that age-old question would arrive shortly after we hit the road.

With my wife behind the wheel, I climbed in the back to watch one of the videos with the kids. Now they’d witness some real comedy.

I probably don’t have to tell you how this ended.

My kids sat stone-faced for the better part of an hour. Not one “nyuk, nyuk” escaped from their lips (or even a slight smile, for that matter). In fact, they actually felt sorry for poor Larry when Moe abused him.

They also failed to relate in any meaningful way with the Rascals. This became quite apparent when one of them asked me why Buckwheat doesn’t comb his hair.

When I suggested that Darla was sort of “cute”, my youngest son asked me whether she had any music videos playing on MTV.

Ultimately, my experiment proved a complete dud. Maybe the lack of color or naked realism put my kids off –- I don’t really know. What I can tell you is, less than an hour after starting up the vcr, my children asked me to turn it off so they could stare out the window in peace.

I guess I should chalk it up to the fact that my kids and I are products of significantly different eras. What is funny in one era may not translate well in another. Then again, I might be missing the boat altogether.

The one thing I’m sure of? From now on I’ll be keeping my “nyuks” to myself.

(c) Marc L. Prey 2002