thinking about Bear

My cousin's dog died, and that's sad. Made me think about my dog, who's been gone two years now.

But.

I'm glad I wrote the following when Bear was just 7 years old. Love you, buddy.

Today is The Bear's seventh birthday.

He was born a poor, black child, perhaps somewhere in Alexandria. He was torn from his mother's teat, and was back in the Alexandria pound by the time he was 12 months old. He was returned twice by owners. His rap sheet read: Chews on Shoes, and Jumps Up on People. The Bear seemed too good to live in this world.

Jayme and I adopted The Bear in January 1992, one week before the Redskins went to The Super Bowl. It would be The Skins last visit to The Top.

The Bear soon became a legend in Northern Virginia. He ran like Secretariat, and no leash could hold him. He'd chew through them, and wear the stem as a leash necktie. Mocking you.

Soon every mailman, bicyclist and Rollerblader brave enough -- foolish enough -- to enter his sight earned his wrath. His best weapon became The Dreaded Nip on The Heel.

He also earned a reputation as a Dog Who Loved Car Rides. Woe unto the unsuspecting dog sitter who tried to grab his collar and pull him out of the car. A nip on the wrist for you, Brave Soul.

And we all remember The Bear's sordid behavior at The Pig Roast, where he ate his fill of burnt flesh, and hid the rest for a week.

All hounds in Northern Virginia praise The Bear for his Infamous Dog Parties. Seven, eight dogs at a time cavorting and playing in his backyard while The Old Man cut the grass. Or ripping through State and National Parks.

The Bear has seen it all: The Wilds of Harpers Ferry, The Flower Gardens of Fells Point, The Concrete Jungles of Manhattan, The Tall Trees of the Shenandoah Mountains, and of course, New York's Bear Mountain.

Still, The Bear wanted more. In February 1996, he adopted a pet, Kemo. The irresistible scamp made for a fun-loving, dim-witted sidekick, and could easily be used as a tool to meet chicks, and be discarded. Three times, The Bear has rescued Kemo from State and National parks when the undersized scalawag lost his way while chasing his own tail.

The Bear celebrated his birthday w/ romps in the acres of Doug Cashmere's nursery in Southern Maryland, and whiled away the night talking philosophy w/ Duncan, Doug's 2-year-old, fever-ridden son. Duncan didn't get it, but basked in the glow that is The Bear.

Today, The Bear went for a romp alongside the Potomac w/ his best babe, Winnie, and that pesky tag-along, Kemo. The Bear ran once again like Secretariat, gliding along the White Sands of The Potomac. The Bear has been working out, and has lost four pounds this year; don't think Winnie didn't notice.

As soon as we got back, The Bear asked that Kemo be kept outside (no problem!) so he and Winnie could spend some "quality time." It was way over an hour later (way over!) when The Bear came downstairs for Belly Rubs, while Winnie licked his ears. True, they had torn Dave's bed to shreds, but it was just one of the many birthday presents The Bear enjoyed.

Happy Birthday to The Bear.

Two, three count with nobody on

Again, I'd stayed up too late, screwing around with the new DVR and trying to give him another chance. A bit before midnight, Barry Bonds came up against the Nationals for the third time tonight.

The night before, I watched Barry's first AB (fouling out to Zimmerman, who ran after it like it was Game 7) and recorded the rest. Missed nothing.

I switched over for Barry's first AB tonight. A single in the right-side gap. Missed his double. Checked the game one more time as I was heading to bed, and there he was on deck.

Right then, I wished I had one of the girls up to watch with me. I'd be a redneck dad pulling my 5-year-old out of bed near midnight, but, there she was coughing in the dining room. I called her, she sat on my lap, and we watched Barry take the count to 3-2. She was cheering. I was cheering. And he smacked that ball five rows into the RF bleachers.

She oohed and ahhed at the fireworks. I pointed out his wife and she wanted to know Barry's daughters' names. I told her Willie Mays might've been the best there ever was, and there he is. Hank Aaron showed up on the big screen – he used to have the record, but now Barry does.

Where does Barry live, she asked – in the ballpark? Not after this year, I said. Barry said thank you to everyone, the Nationals, his family and his daddy. I was glad Mean Bud wasn't there, looking like he just shit in his own cornflakes. I was glad Barry acted like a gracious baseball hero.

Is he a jerk? Yes he is. Is he a doper? Blame Bud Selig for not proving it. Tonight, Barry Bonds hit a solo home run on a full count to break a 4-4 tie. Tonight, he was a reason to celebrate baseball, and I got to share it with my baby. Thanks, Barry.

Two, three count with nobody on
He hit a high fly into the stand
Rounding third he was headed for home
It was a brown skinned handsome man
That won the game; it was a brown eyed handsome man.

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