SHLOMO

I want to say thanks to the hundreds of good people who sent me condolences on the death of my little dog Shlomo.

Maybe it’s the snow…maybe it’s the sad news of our government raping Minneapolis… maybe it’s the many little nameless pains that come from my age but since we lost Shlomo there is a feeling of emptiness in my home.

How can a little dog make a great big warm house and life feel empty? I don’t know.

But I know this, Shlomo lived a charmed life, he loved everybody and everybody loved him.

Let me tell you how much I loved my little dog, Shlomo.

From the day we got him, he would climb onto my lap, and we would spend many happy hours watching football together.

Shlomo was a New York Giant’s fan. And, on many a Sunday I used to make myself a martini or 2, or 3, and Shlomo and I would watch our favorite team.

That’s when I first noticed that every time Shlomo sat on my lap, the Giants would win. Naturally being just short of a totally degenerate gambler, I told everyone that Shlomo was a “lucky” dog.

Wouldn’t you know I started to hear from friends who loved to bet football as much as I did. They’d call and ask: “Will you be home watching the Giants game? Will you have Shlomo on your lap?” In my friend’s wacky minds Shlomo won them a lot of bets.

A few times while on my third drink, I would get excited by something that happened in the game and accidentally spill my martini on Shlomo’s head. He always forgave me.

He was the love of my life because he was like a human and in the end, like most humans, all he wanted, was to be held

in the arms of someone who loved him.

I found an old column about when Shlomo first came into my life I’ve repeated it a few times. It gives me a lot of pleasure reading it again. I hope it does the same for you.

THE SICK PUPPY (from Jerry's Ink 4/14/10)

Our sweet little puppy Shlomo gave us a scare the other day.

First, he was sick and he heaved, then he was droopy and wouldn't eat and was walking with his tail between his legs and looking miserable.

I naturally did what I always do in a situation like that – I panicked. "Call the vet," I whined to my wife, the beautiful Judy Licht.

Judy called the vet and I was hovering, wringing my hands.

"What did she say?" I asked.

"She suggested that we take Shlomo's temperature."

"How are we going to get him to keep a thermometer under his tongue?" I joked.

"We have to get him a thermometer that goes in the other side, a rectal thermometer," said Judy, looking uncomfortable.

Being the rough, tough he-man I am, I screamed: "YUCK! YUCK! YUCK! That's disgusting. I won't ... I mean, I can't do it. Can't we just feel his forehead?" Then I realized that I was starting to sound like Butterfly McQueen in the movie Gone with the Wind, crying, "I don't know nothing about birthing babies."

Judy took control and called me a hopeless wuss and the next thing I knew we were off to a pharmacy to pick up a thermometer. I sat in the car as Judy went in to make the purchase. As she neared the door of the pharmacy, I suddenly remembered something I had forgotten and shouted out to Judy: "JUDY, GET A LOT OF VASELINE. WE'RE GOING TO NEED A LOT OF VASELINE."

Everyone on the street turned to stare at me except for Judy, who covered her head with her hands and rushed into the pharmacy, pretending she didn't know me.

Once we were back at our house, sitting on our sofa, we got into a jurisdictional dispute. Who was going to hold Shlomo and who was going to do the inserting?

"I can't do it," I protested. "It's the man's job to hold the dog while the woman er ... er ... does the rest." So, there I was, holding onto Shlomo when Judy said, "I can't do it – his tail is in the way."

"Ridiculous, it's just a tail. Just lift it."

"No," said Judy. "I can't. He’s resisting and making his tail is hard as a rock." So, I tried to lift his tail, and I realized it was like an iron bar. Putting on my best announcer's voice I said, "Well, Shlomo, if this tail erection persists for more than four hours, you should seek medical help."

"Shlomo, your father is an idiot," said Judy.

I finally lifted the tail. After a while Judy said, "I can't find it."

"That's ridiculous. It's got to be there."

"I know it's there, but I can't see it."

I said, "Here, you hold him. I'll do it." So, Judy took poor little confused Shlomo onto her lap, and I took a look and said, "My God, this is like looking into the back of a Rastafarian's head. This dog has dreadlocks on top of dreadlocks back there."

Then Judy and I looked at each other and started to giggle at our total incompetence. The last time I giggled so long and so loud I was in the sixth grade at P.S. 95 in Brooklyn. Judy laughed so loud at the two of us that she couldn't catch her breath.

"I give up," I said. "Shlomo, we've failed you."

"So, what do I do with this?" Judy asked, holding up the thermometer. I said nothing, but I made a face and bit my lip. Judy started laughing again.

We went out that night and got a text from my daughter Jessie saying: "Come home fast, Shlomo is having a seizure."

When we got there Jessie was standing barefoot and Shlomo was licking her toes.

"I called the vet and she said to try to get some sugar or syrup into him, but he wouldn't drink it, so I poured some on my feet and he's licking it off."

We bundled the pup up and raced for New York City. He was still droopy and was suffering from low blood sugar.

I walked into the Mobil Station in Manorville and started looking for something sweet to feed him. Candy? Gum? Then I saw him, Tony the Tiger, smiling at me from a giant box of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes. I bought the box and went into the car. Judy poured the flakes into my cupped hands. The puppy went wild and ate up handful after handful of the flakes. I grabbed the steering wheel with my sticky hands and aimed my car towards the Long Island Expressway.

That evening we spoke to our vet

"The puppy is going to be fine," she assured us. "What he has is a fairly common problem with some pups and it might not come back again."

"Poor Shlomo," I thought to myself. "You're stuck with two parents who don't even know which end is up."