"Magic Carpet Guys"

By Jerry Zezima

I’m a guy who has always swept things under the rug. That doesn’t include the things another guy, who happens to be a cute little pooch, recently plopped on the rug.

Which is why my wife, Sue, and I had the rug cleaned.

Because I don’t take my shoes off in the house, which means dirt is afoot, we had a second rug cleaned, too.

The cleaners were Keenen Pierre and Josh Vazquez, who are esteemed colleagues, even though they don’t use steam on rugs and carpets.

“We use what’s called hot water extraction,” Keenen explained.

“Instead of going on the rug, steam comes out of the machine and hits me in the face,” Josh added while mopping sweat from his brow. “Every day is like a trip to the sauna.”

On this day, the sauna was at our house, where the rugs in the dining room and the family room awaited the spa treatment.

The one in the dining room needed the most work because of our canine guest, who is so adorable that he didn’t end up in the doghouse.

“Now that he’s back home, the rug needs to be cleaned,” Sue said.

“That’s what we get the most calls about,” said Keenen, who went over the rug with an ultraviolet light to spot the spots.

“Do you have a dog?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

“I have a 10-month-old wire-haired miniature dachshund that my wife and I got for our 12-year-old son,” Josh said. “We also have a 6-year-old cat. She’s a shedder. I have to start brushing her.”

“I guess the fur flies in your house,” I noted.

“It sure does,” said Josh. “We have an area rug and a stair runner that I keep clean. I might have to get one of those Roomba vacuum cleaners.”

“I can’t do the rumba because I have two left feet,” I said.

“Speaking of feet,” Sue told the guys, “Jerry doesn’t take his shoes off in the house.”

“If I did, you’d complain about the smell,” I countered. “Then the rugs would have to be fumigated.”

“My girlfriend makes me take my shoes off,” said Keenen. “We have wall-to-wall carpeting.”

“Do you clean it?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he replied. “I use this equipment. It’s one of the benefits of the job. And it keeps my girlfriend happy.” Keenen smiled and added, “That’s a benefit, too.”

The equipment includes a carpet-cleaning wand, a long metal tube with a bottom that looks like a vacuum cleaner. The wand is attached by a tube to a tank of water from the house.

“It’s like a power washer,” Keenen said.

“I could use one,” I told him. “I haven’t taken a shower today.”

“We also have deodorizer,” he said.

“You can spray it on his feet,” Sue suggested.

“It has active enzymes that attack and kill bacteria-causing odor,” said Josh, who also used it on the family room rug, which was discolored by the dirt I dragged in on my shoes.

“When I don’t take off my shoes, my wife gives me flak,” he admitted.

“See?” said Sue, shooting me a glance.

The family room rug is made of wool; the one in the dining room is made of either viscose or polyurethane.

“Wool rugs take longer to dry,” said Josh, who used a carpet rake, which lifts hair to help eliminate moisture.

“Don’t put your furniture back until tomorrow or it will create indentations,” Keenen said.

“How do you get indentations out?” Sue asked.

Josh had a surprising answer: “Ice chips.”

“They’re not just for cocktails anymore,” I said.

“Thanks for the great job,” Sue said to the guys.

“You’re very welcome,” Keenen replied. “If the dog comes back for a visit, keep an eye on him.”

“And,” Josh reminded me, “don’t forget to take your shoes off.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Poppie and the Puppy"

By Jerry Zezima

A dog may be a man’s best friend — except when the man has to take the dog out in snow, rain, heat or gloom of night — but as a man whose best friends have all been female, I hadn’t had a male bonding experience in a dog’s age.

That is, until recently, when a cute little guy named Jackson was our houseguest.

Since Jackson is a puppy, that made me his foster grandfather. And my wife, Sue, was his foster grandmother.

“I’m Poppie,” I said by way of introduction. “And this,” I continued, pointing to Sue and doing what the dog knew was a poor imitation of a pointer, “is Nini.”

Jackson barked to indicate he knew exactly what I was saying, which is more than I can say for most humans.

“He’s part Shih Tzu,” Sue told me.

“I can Shih that,” I told her.

“And part Schnauzer,” she added.

This explained why, for the duration of Jackson’s brief stay, I had the second-best mustache in the house.

The first guy thing we did was to watch a baseball game on TV. During the seventh-inning stretch, I told Jackson that his namesake, Reggie Jackson, has a mustache. The dog, who weighs only a few pounds, stretched in my lap but otherwise seemed unimpressed.

I also told him that I have been the human brother, father or grandfather of four dogs in my life.

My boyhood dog was Daisy, who cost the grand sum of one dollar. She was reportedly easier to housebreak than I was. Daisy was my first real friend and lived a long and playful life.

I got my next dog, Lizzie, after Sue and I were married. Lizzie cost a dollar less than Daisy and proved that the best things in life are free.

Lizzie was the sweetest creature God ever made. She also was so smart that she beat me — this is absolutely true — in a blackjack tournament.

Then there was our first granddog, Maggie, who had a spunky personality and a prodigious appetite. When it came to food, especially mine, which she constantly begged me to give her, Maggie was a canine vacuum cleaner.

Our present granddog is Opal, whom Jackson has met and likes. Opal is a lovable sweetheart and a real fashionista who has a better wardrobe than I do.

While I have enjoyed being a ladies’ man, I didn’t have a male delivery until Jackson arrived.

“OMG! He is so handsome and absolutely adorable!!!” my sister Susan gushed after I texted her a photo of me and the pooch.

My response: “Thank you. The dog is cute, too.”

Jackson, a man of few barks, was vocal in his reaction. I took it to mean that he laughed at my silly joke. Guys do that. Ladies — both human and canine — just roll their eyes.

But for all the masculine bluster, Jackson proved to be what Sue called a fraidy-cat because he didn’t like the cars that whizzed past when she took him for a walk.

“The correct term is fraidy-dog,” I said.

So we had to take Jackson in the backyard to do his business. Each time he did something, we gave him a treat.

“If I had a treat every time I did my business,” I said, “I’d weigh 500 pounds.”

Speaking of chewing, we thought Jackson, who is teething, lost a tooth.

“Is the Fang Fairy supposed to leave money under his pillow?” I wondered.

The three of us enjoyed watching “A Dog’s Purpose,” a fine family film based on the bestselling book written by my buddy W. Bruce Cameron, who co-wrote the screenplay.

Jackson gave the movie two paws up.

As with all good things, Jackson’s stay came to an end. He’s back home and Sue and I miss the little guy.

The male bonding was fun, but at least I once again have the best mustache in the house.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"The Lottery Doctor Is In"

By Jerry Zezima

If I ever won the lottery, I’d never collect the money. That’s because I would drop dead from shock. Then my wife would be a rich widow.

But since I haven’t even come close to hitting the jackpot, and the price of beer has gone up, I was willing to take the risk. So I sought the advice of Dr. Brown, a self-described “lottery doctor” whose practice has netted him — and some of his lucky patients — millions of dollars in winnings.

I learned about this money medicine man when I read an ad for his prognosticating services in the Old Farmer’s Almanac. It said:

LOTTERY DOCTOR. Lotto Advisor. African Mojo. Powerballs. Megamillions. Winning Numbers. Call Doctor Brown Now!

Because I took a vow of poverty when I went into journalism, I called him right away.

“I need your help,” I said. “I want to win the lottery.”

“Have you ever played?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “And I’ve lost every time. The only time I won anything, it was two bucks, which I used to buy another ticket. Most of the time, I don’t get any numbers at all. I think I should get a free ticket if I get shut out.”

“You really do need help,” said Dr. Brown, a personable guy who apparently doesn’t have a first name, lives on the West Coast and said he is a “spiritual doctor.”

“Have you ever won the lottery?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve won the California lottery twice. The first time was for $7 million and the second time was for $10 million.”

“You’re rich!” I gushed.

“Not really,” Dr. Brown said. “I have seven kids. They cost a lot of money.”

The good doctor, who is 77, has been married for almost 60 years. He and his wife have 32 grandchildren.

“I think there’s another one on the way,” he told me.

“I have two daughters and five grandchildren,” I said. “They’d love it if I won the lottery.”

“How about your wife?” Dr. Brown asked.

“She’s the boss, the family banker and the brains of the outfit,” I said. “She’d know what to do with all my winnings.”

Family is very important to Dr. Brown because that’s where he got his predicting powers.

“My grandfather trained me in this work,” he said. “He taught me how to make mojo bags. They contain good luck charms that can be turned into powerful money-making magnets.”

Dr. Brown, who began displaying his powers when he was only 3 years old, sells mojo bags for $247 each.

“Why $247?” I asked.

“Because,” he answered, “they work 24/7.”

“Have the bags helped anyone win the lottery?” I wanted to know.

“Absolutely,” Dr. Brown said. “People have thanked me, although not all of them. I think they squandered their winnings.”

“I can’t afford a bag because I haven’t won the lottery,” I said. “Can you pick winning numbers for me?”

“I don’t do that,” Dr. Brown said. “But I can give you some tips. When is your birthday?”

“January 11,” I said.

“You basically go by your birthday number,” said the doctor, adding that there are lucky days and hours associated with the number.

He gave me a full explanation that I didn’t quite understand because math was my worst subject in school, followed closely by all the others, but essentially I used the strategy to pick numbers in the next Powerball drawing. I also bought a scratch-off ticket.

The Powerball jackpot was $251 million. The potential scratch-off payout was $500.

“The $3 I spent on tickets will make us millions,” I told my wife, Sue.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she replied.

The day after the Powerball drawing, I checked the numbers. Not one came out. Nothing on the scratch-off, either.

“Loser!” Sue said.

“Not at all,” I countered. “This doctor saved my life. At least I didn’t win and drop dead from shock.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Lost and Not Found"

By Jerry Zezima

My eyes aren’t what they used to be. In fact, they used to be martini olives. Those were the days!

The sad fact is that I can’t find anything anymore. I don’t just mean small things, like a screwdriver (the tool, not vodka and orange juice, which are in the liquor cabinet and the refrigerator, respectively). I mean big things.

Like my car.

Whenever I leave it in a parking lot to run an errand or go to the gym, I can’t find it when I come back out.

Even if I make a mental note of which row I parked in, the car is never there. I know it hasn’t been stolen because my license plate, JZEE, which my wife, Sue, got for me years ago, would be easy to trace.

I am convinced that instead of car thieves, there are now car movers, prankish people who start my car and drive it to another parking space so I can’t find it.

Another reason could be that my memory, or what’s left of it, is also pulling pranks on me. I base this theory on the fact that my car, which I bought a few months ago, is silver and my old car was black.

Still, after all this time, I look for a black car.

Once I walked up to one, the exact make and model of my previous vehicle, and tried to open it. I’m lucky I wasn’t arrested.

I suppose I could have claimed I didn’t intend to steal the car but was trying to move it to another parking space to prank the owner.

Even when I do find my car, I can seldom back out without having to wait for someone walking aimlessly behind me. I imagine he is looking for his car.

When he finds it, nine times out of 10 it will be parked next to mine and I will have to wait while he loads groceries into his car. This sometimes takes as long as it would take to grow the actual food.

It’s worse when I am trying to find a parking space and see someone who is about to pull out but doesn’t. He’ll sit there for an eternity while I sit in my car, blinker on, waiting impatiently to pull into a space that I won’t be able to find later on.

And that’s just the big stuff. Harder to find are the small things.

Let’s say you are in a store looking for a sympathy card. You find one that says:

Violets are blue,

Roses are red.

Sorry to hear

Your grandma is dead.

“Nah,” you say to yourself, because other customers want to get away from you, “this one won’t do.”

So you decide to put it back. But you can’t find the spot where you saw the card only 10 seconds before! Somehow, those very same cards have mysteriously moved or vanished into thin air.

Your eyes are not playing tricks on you. It is clearly a cosmic conspiracy.

It’s even worse at home. Whenever Sue asks me to get something, I’ll ask where it is. She will tell me it’s in a drawer, but when I look for the item, it’s never there.

The question is: Has Sue moved it or has the item — gleefully anticipating my dilemma — moved on its own?

Maybe it’s hiding under something I wasn’t looking for. Or it’s in the back of the drawer, which purposely won’t open all the way. Or it has jumped to the next drawer and is laughing at me.

This proves that inanimate objects are all in cahoots against me.

I don’t want to think I am going crazy. That happened a long time ago. So I figure I should see an eye doctor.

I hope I can find my car in the parking lot.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima