"Puppy Love"

By Jerry Zezima

When you’re a grandparent, you want only the best for the newest addition to the family. That’s why my wife, Sue, and I went shopping in anticipation of baby’s first visit and came home with everything the little one needs, including a bowl for food, one for water, a stick for teething, a bag of treats for snacks, toys for playing, a leash for walking and, for cleanup duty, a pooper scooper.

As you can tell, we would spare no expense for our beautiful, loving and exuberant granddog, Opal.

She’s a rescue, a tan-and-white dynamo, a Chihuahua who is about seven months old, tips the scales at nine pounds and has brightened the lives of our younger daughter, our son-in-law and two of our granddaughters, who have fallen under the spell of puppy love and readily acknowledge that Opal is almost as much fun as their grandfather.

The main difference is that it took me a lot longer to be housebroken.

Opal is the third pooch our daughter has brought into the family.

The first was Lizzie, who came into our lives when our daughter, who was then 12, brought home a little black-and-white puppy that a friend’s neighbor had given to her. The woman told our daughter that if we didn’t want the dog, she would take her back. Otherwise, she was ours.

We fell in love with the pup, took her to the vet for an exam and adopted her.

Two weeks later, the woman called to say she wanted the dog back. Our daughter was in tears. I got on the phone. Words were exchanged. Threats were made. A custody battle ensued.

Finally, in an effort to be fair, and mature, and reasonable, I told the woman I had veto power.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“If you don’t let us keep the dog,” I replied very calmly, “I am going to call my Uncle Vito.”

And that is how Lizzie became a beloved member of our family.

She also was this man’s best friend. Our adventures were legendary.

Lizzie, a mix of Lab, border collie and terrier, first gained fame as the winner of the Pooch Who Can Smooch contest at Puttin’ on the Dog, the annual fundraiser for Adopt-a-Dog in Greenwich, Connecticut. 

Then there was the time I had to brush Lizzie’s teeth. (Her breath smelled like a bean supper with the windows closed.) And the time, after reading about Sonya Fitzpatrick, TV’s “Pet Psychic,” I tried to determine if Lizzie had extrasensory powers. (Sue thought I was “The Pet Psycho.”) And the time Lizzie actually beat me in a blackjack tournament. (I’m not playing with a full deck.) And the time I took her to New York City to meet Lassie. (The canine superstars got along famously.)

Lizzie, who lived to be almost 15, proved that the best things in life are free.

After she got her own place, our daughter adopted our first granddog, a puppy rescue she named Maggie, a black-and-white whippet mix who was energetic, affectionate and hungry. Always, always hungry. She wolfed down food (dog and human) faster than any wolf, but she kept, for the most part, her girlish figure.

When our daughter’s first baby was born, Maggie took on the role of proud big sister. She also was very protective. God help any repair person who came over. I should mention that Maggie was loud, too.

If any dog had a literal appetite for life, it was Maggie, who, like Lizzie, was deeply loved and lived to be a canine senior citizen.

Now there’s Opal, a youngster who is sweet, smart and another beloved member of the family.

One of these days, when we’re out for a walk, I’ll tell her all about Uncle Vito.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Don't Sweat the Style Stuff"

By Jerry Zezima

Row, row, row my seat swiftly down the track.

Warily, warily, warily, warily, my body’s out of whack.

That’s the tune I sang to myself — because I didn’t want to scare everyone else at the gym — as I rocked and rolled on a rowing machine under the expert guidance of my very own personal trainer.

I decided to go back to the gym because I have a heart condition and my cardiologist recommended it (going back to the gym, not having heart condition).

I met assistant manager Antwone Bowen and said I hadn’t been there in a while.

“How come?” he asked.

“I just got out of jail,” I told him. “I was in for sticking up a gym.”

Antwone smiled nervously.

“Not really,” I admitted. “I was diagnosed with an aortic aneurysm and was scheduled for open-heart surgery, so I stopped coming.”

“How did the surgery go?” Antwone asked.

“I didn’t need it,” I replied. “The doctor said I have to do cardio exercises, so I’m back.”

When I told Antwone I’m 71, he exclaimed, “Wow! You don’t look it.”

“How’s your eyesight?” I wondered.

“Not good,” said Antwone, who’s 26 and wears glasses. “But I can see that you’re in excellent shape.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I said. “That’s why I’d like to get a personal trainer.”

Antwone put me in touch with Shae Ayyildiz, who’s 24 and has been training people, young and old, for two years.

“I could start you on the three-pound dumbbells,” Shae said during my introductory meeting.

“I’m a 185-pound dumbbell,” I said. “Besides, I’m not supposed to do any heavy lifting.”

“In that case, rowing is very good,” Shae said. “You can do that, the high bike and the treadmill.”

When I showed up a few days later for my first training session, Shae said I should warm up on the treadmill for 15 minutes.

I breezed through it without having to call an ambulance.

“You’re starting off well,” said Shae. “But you shouldn’t be wearing jeans. Why aren’t you wearing sweatpants?”

“I have to run errands after this and I need the pockets for all my stuff,” I explained.

“I hope you won’t be too uncomfortable on the rowing machine,” said Shae, who took me over to one, got me seated and told me what to do: “Pull on the handle and push with your legs.”

I instantly got into a good rhythm.

“You’re going at the speed of light!” Shae chirped.

“That’s because I’m lightheaded,” I said. “Could I be on the Olympic rowing team?”

“Sure,” she answered. “You might even win a gold medal.”

“Not bad for a guy who doesn’t have all his oars in the water,” I noted.

Then Shae took me over to a high stationary bike, which looked like the kind used by racers in the Tour de France.

“I’ll always have Paris, even though I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

“You’re pedaling like a champ,” said Shae.

“Do you have any clients who are my age?” I asked.

“Yes,” Shae said. “But you’re doing much better than they do. And you’re more active.”

From the bike it was back to the treadmill to cool down.

“The treadmill helped me warm up before and now it’s helping me cool down,” I pointed out. “How does it know?”

“It’s smart,” answered Shae, who was impressed that I did 15 minutes on the treadmill, seven on the rowing machine, seven on the bike and another 10 on the treadmill. “And it was only your first session.”

“If you were to give me a grade, what would it be?” I asked.

“I’d give you an 8.5 out of 10,” Shae said. “But that’s only because of your clothes.”

“You deducted a point and a half for style?” I said incredulously.

“You need to dress properly for training,” she replied.

“I barely broke a sweat,” I said. “That’s because I’m not wearing sweats.”

“If you wear them next time,” Shae promised, “I’ll give you a perfect 10.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Taken Aback"

By Jerry Zezima

No matter what I do, whether it’s good, bad or just plain stupid, my wife, Sue, has my back. And I have hers.

But lately, neither one of us has wanted to make the exchange. That’s because we both threw our backs out.

I injured mine while cleaning the bathroom, which is what I get for trying to be helpful around the house.

The irony was not lost on Sue, who appreciated my effort (“you’re so delicate,” she said, “but you did a nice job”) and told me that the best thing for a bad back is exercise.

The irony was not lost on me because a week later, she hurt her back at the gym.

“You’re so delicate,” I said. “And exercise will only make it worse.”

The worst thing about having a bad back, aside from feeling like someone inserted a hot fireplace poker directly into your spine, is getting contradictory and generally useless advice from people who are a pain in the area south of your back.

They will tell you that the best way to feel better is (pick one) heat, cold, rest or, heaven help us, exercise.

I can say from personal experience that the best thing for a bad back is sitting in a comfortable chair with a heating pad and a beer. Just don’t spill the beer on the heating pad or you will get electrocuted. Then a bad back will be the least of your problems.

But for expert advice, I spoke with my mother, Rosina, a retired nurse who is 100 years old and still going strong.

“I’ve never had a bad back and I used to clean the bathroom all the time,” she said. “It was my daily exercise.”

Mom agreed with my theory about rest and beer but added, “If you rest too much, you become stiff. And if you have too much beer, you get fuzzy. Use the heating pad because heat is better than cold. I use a heating pad on my knees. If you have pain, it relaxes that area. But as you get older, your bones get a little brittle. If you’re going to clean the bathroom, you should get one of those long-handled brushes so you don’t have to bend down.”

As for Sue’s injury, Mom said, “Exercise can be good — to a point. Please tell Sue not to overdo it.”

When I hurt my back, I had a hard time getting dressed, putting on my socks and shoes or doing anything that involved movement. Fortunately, that didn’t include walking to the refrigerator for a beer.

After a week, the pain had worked itself out and my back felt better.

Then it was Sue’s turn. She felt so bad that she asked me to help her with her socks and shoes. She also used the heating pad. And she took me food shopping so I could push the cart, fill it with groceries and bag them at the register.

In the frozen-food aisle, where Sue was looking for ice cream, she said, “Turn around.”

I turned around and left the cart stationary.

A woman who was in the same aisle laughed.

“Now you know why I don’t take him shopping,” Sue told her.

At the register, the cashier, a young man, asked if I needed help bagging the groceries.

“Thanks, but I can do it myself,” I replied while holding a bag upside down.

Sue sighed. The kid smiled.

“My wife pulled a muscle,” I told him. “I have her back.”

After a week, her back felt better. Now she’s going to the gym again and, taking my mother’s advice, she’s not overdoing it.

Sue also bought some beer for the next time I clean the bathroom. It’s nice to know she’s still got my back.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima