Commentary
Friday, February 10,1995 Page 5
At least doc knows his ‘heels’
My dog Higgins thinks that
when I say “heel,” I’m going to
give him a piece of toast.
If you don’t have a canine
companion, you can stop reading
right now and move on to the
crossword puzzle.
If you do own an animal, but it
is a well-behaved four-legged friend
or one that understands what “heel”
really means and slows down
instead of salivates at the com
mand, then you too can move on.
But if you have a dog like
Higgy-Poo, one who climbs up on
the table to steal cookies while your
back is turned, who relieves himself
on both the neighbor’s leg and your
kid’s snowman, and who would
betray his loyal owner in an instant
for a greasy chicken bone, then
you’re in the right place.
Your dog, too, would probably
fail the Good Canine Test.
It has been said that one can tell
how important something is to a
culture by how many words they
have to describe it. In Alaska, for
example, there are supposedly
400,000 words that mean snow.
At our house — in the Lange
Kubick subculture — by virtue of
his 27 nicknames, Higgins is
definitely top dog. My son, Justin,
spent one evening last week
compiling a list of epithets for
Higgins that include Higgy, Hig,
Higgy-Piggy, Higadoga, Higmeister
and Highead. You get the picture;
those derivatives make sense.
But the mutt is also lovingly
referred to by these terms of
endearment of questionable origin:
Geidel, Fruen, Ginzy, Fruen-Ginzy,
Fruen-Doggy. (I think our German
roots are showing through.)
Nobody loves Higgy-hoo more
Cindy Lange-KuMck
than the kids — they sleep with
him, fight over him and let him
wash their faces with his tongue.
My youngest son, Joe, claims
that HiggyDugga is a person. (I
tend to agree with him, although I
question Joe’s overall judgment,
since he also feels that our two
guinea pigs, our ex-turtles and the
goldfish that are buried in the
backyard — Like-a-lot and Love-a
lot — were people, too.)
So the children love El Frueno;
guess who he loves?
Guess who Higgelty-Piggelty
moons over while this person is
away — sitting softly whining, his
nose between his paws by the front
door?
Me, his mommy.
“Look, Higgins, it’s Mommy.
Mommy’s home!”
At first I was flattered. It.
reminded me of when my children
were wee babies, and they loved me
best.
Of course, that feeling of
superiority at being the center of a
helpless infant’s universe soon
dissipates after a few sleepless
nights.
So it is with my new baby. It was
love at first sight when he smiled at
me through his prison bars at the
pound, his tail wagging furiously.
My heart melted.
Yes, dogs do smile.
We took him home and began to
bond. I fed him, I bathed him, I
culled him for fleas.
I walked him, I slipped him
pizza crust under the table, I
whispered sweet nothings in his
ear.
My husband started giving me
sidelong looks of jealousy and
became downright hostile when I
asked him if he could just scoot
over “a little bit” so the dog could
sleep between us.
I was concerned about separation
anxiety.
In short, I spoiled Higgins
rotten.
And that’s why he will never
pass the Good Canine Test.
Not only does he not come, sit or
stay. He also cannot “walk on a
loose lead,” or “demonstrate good
manners when left alone.”
He flunked parts four and eight
of the test hands down. He could
neither “walk through a crowd
without straining on the leash” nor
“demonstrate no more than casual
interest in the presence of other
dogs.”
Pleeease.
The Higmeister pees on animate
and inanimate objects alike, jumps
up on strangers and attacks dogs
three times his size.
The only part of the test he
managed to pass muster on was
when I said “heel.”
He slowed down long enough for
me to slip him a piece of toast.
Lange-Kubickls a senior news-editorial
and sociology major and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist
Athletes secrets better untold
The TV talkers repeatedly tell us
that the Simpson triad is teaching us
that sports heroes can be real
people with character flaws.
Yes, that’s true. But does that
surprise anyone expect tiny chil
dren?
There have been days when the
sports pages read like the daily
police blotter, with athletes being
accused of selling or using dope,
assaulting females, evading taxes,
walloping fans, throwing mini
bombs and even committing armed
heists.
If someone did a study, it would
probably show that the misbehavior
rate among athletes is probably
higher than any other group of
public figures except Chicago
aldermen.
And that is despite sports
reporters trying to be kind by
sparing us an overdose of true-life
portraits of the athletes they cover.
Or maybe they aren’t being kind,
but fear that if they tell us too
much, they won’t be able to go in a
locker room without having a limb
ripped off.
Whatever the reason, sports
reporters have, to some degree,
tried to shield sports idols from
being publicly unveiled as mopes or
menaces. And maybe that is only
fair, since the athletes and reporters
can be brought together so inti
mately. Few political reporters get
to interview politicians when they
limp naked and dripping out of a •
shower. They’re grateful for being
spared the sight.
And maybe the sports reporters
believe that the fans — already
yawning through contract squabbles
and labor disputes — really don’t
want to know that the splendid
athlete they cheer eats dinner with
his fingers. Even the soup.
Mike Royko
At one time, everything off the
field was considered confidential.
That’s why we didn’t know that
Babe Ruth was an incredible
glutton for food, booze and any
woman who was handy. Or that Ty
Cobb was a vicious racist. Or that
other star beat their wives, kept
bottles in their lockers, or made
goo-goo eyes at their teammates.
We were happier believing they all
ate Wheaties and dedicated every
home run to a sick child.
In recent years, there has been
more peeking into the laundry
hampers. Not only of athletes, but
of everyone else. But there is much
that we aren’t told, and I’m glad.
When I go to the ballpark, I want to
yell, “Way to go,” instead of, “Call
the cops.”
But because I have friends who
are sportswriters, I’ve heard many
of the stories they tell over lunch or
a beer. And it gives me a clearer
idea of why there is no cheering in
the press box.
A few examples:
One day the Bears announced
that they had traded a player for a
low draft choice.
Like many fans, I was surprised
because that player was one of the
few bright spots on a really pathetic
team.
The writer who covered the
Bears team was a proper fellow and
a churchgoer. When I asked him
about the strange trade, he looked
uncomfortable.
“The coach told me, off the
record, that the other players had
been complaining about him,” the
writer said.
Why?
Grimacing, he said: “Well; they
have this one big shower room that
they all use. And he was always ...
always ... well, he was always
abusing himself in there.”
In front of his teammates?
“Yes. You know, he’s not the
brightest person in the world.”
Does the coach of the team he
was traded to know about this?
“Sure, but he says it won’t be
any problem because they have
separate shower stalls.”
And then there was the pitcher
who was traded to the Cubs, and
almost immediately went on the
disabled list.
When I expressed puzzlement
that the pitcher had been injured
even before he had a chance to
play, the baseball writer said: “Just
between you and me, I’m told he
just came down with VD, a case of
clap. It’ll take a little while before
the shots clear it up.”
Does that prevent him from
pitching?
“Not really. But he’s married
and he told his wife that he can
barely move around in bed because
he has a bad back, so the team has
to cover for him.”
So we shouldn’t be surprised
that O.J. turned out to be something
less than a church deacon. And
regardless of what he has done, it
should be remembered that his
teammates didn’t mind sharing a
shower with him.
© 1995 Tribaae Media Services, lac.
Politicians better
watch their tongues
Imagine coming home from
vacation to discover that your con
gressman had a name-change op
eration. It’s enough to make a girl
lose her tan.
Hereabouts, most of us have
known and voted for Barney Frank
ever since he ran for the state leg
islature under the slogan “Neat
ness Isn’t Everything.” We’ve
known him rumpled and ironed.
But Barney Fag? After House
Majority Leader and Ph.D. Dick
Armey let this little bit of Freud
slip off his lip, he insisted vocifer
ously that it was just a mispronun
ciation, “I had trouble with allit
eration. I was stumbling, mum
bling ...”
Well, Peter Piper picked a peck
ofpickled peppers toyou too. Frank,
fank, fink, fig, fag? As Barney
said, in all his mother’s 59 years of
marriage, no one had ever called
her Elsie Fag.
As for Armey’s sub-subcon
scious, the man uttered this pro
vocative pronunciation right after
proclaiming, “I like peace and
quiet.” He ended that possibility
with the sentence: “And I don’t
need to listen to Barney Fag (pause)
Barney frank haranguing in my
ear. ...”
But enough psychotherapy and
speech therapy. After dabbling in
some medical literature, I have re
luctantly come to the conclusion
that certain right-wing brethren in
the new order are suffering from a
new disorder. They are suffering
from what I can only describe as
Political Tourette’s Syndrome.
Tourette’s Syndrome, you may
recall, is that unfortunate neuro
logical disease whose symptoms
include, among other things, in
voluntary swearing. A disease, by
the way, that is three times more
likely to affect males than females
and gets worse at puberty.
My medical dictionary describes
the swearing symptoms with a sym
pathetic and classic understate
ment. It says: “This aspect of the
disease complicates social adjust
ment.”
There you have it.
Newt Gingrich, Speaker of the
House and also a Ph.D., pontifi
cates in futuristic cyberspeak about
the Third Wave, when everybody
will have a tax-deductible laptop
computer. But then, says mom, out
pops a decidedly First Wave word
on the first lady: Bitch!
' Rep. Robert Dornan (R-Calif.)
prides himself on speaking Patrio
tism as his first language. Then out
jumps a primal slur on his com
mander-in-chief: Traitor!
The honorary member of the
new Republican class, talkmaster
Rush Limbaugh, insists that some
of his best friends are strong
women. But then from somewhere
I s
Ellen Goodman
behind bared teeth blurts out:
Feminazi!
The short list doesn’t include
other such verbal escapees as “coun
terculture McGovemiks” or “me
dia elite” (certifiable Swears), but
you get the idea. At least the new
leaders aren’t like the poor man in
Coral Springs, Fla., whose neigh
bors wanted to evict him because
his disease made him shriek at
night. On second thought, maybe
they are like that.
Nobody has yet suggested that
we evict Armey and Gingrich, both
of whom, of course, deny every
thing and blame the media. (An
other symptom.)
Political Tourette’s Syndrome,
or PTS, is not exclusively a Repub
lican disease. However, it appeared
in its earliest form on the tapes of
the late Richard M. Nixon, whose
epitaph should have been “Exple
tives Deleted.”
It became rampant at the Re
publican National Convention in
1992, when rancid little bits of
hate speech — misogyny,
homophobia,
workingmotherphobia—kept pop
ping up from under the sweet frost
ing of family values.
But what typifies the current
strain of PTS is the irresponsible
meanness in outbursts of those who
find themselves in positions of what
we would loosely call responsibil
ity.
Responsible people, alas, are
expected to hold their tongues.
Conservatives, on the other hand,
include many who have long
bridled at the “political correct
ness” cops and longed for the good
old days when you could call a
strong woman a bitch and a homo
sexual a fag. Thus we have whole
minutes, hours, weeks of respon
sible speak punctuated by volcanic
verbal eruptions—Bitch! Fag! —
followed by the passionate denial
of people who couldn’t help them
selves.
As Barney Frank said, it
wouldn’t have popped out if it
weren’t in. Bitch! Fag! It’s getting
to be a habit. Or a disease.
And as the medical book says, it
“complicates social adjustment.”
© 1995 The Boston Globe Newspaper
Company
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Mike Lukovich
