Our beloved family pet is finally in the ground; now we can start living again

About 15 months ago, my dog died. God, I loved him. He was not just a great dog - dammit, he was a great human being.  But in his final months, our family became round-the-clock home health aides, carrying him up steps and tending to him all night. It drained us. Worst of all was the hopelessness: We knew what was coming.

Then one day, it came. We were shattered, depressed, beaten down - but suddenly, holy crap! facing free nights! We could travel! We didn't have to rise at 4 a.m. to let anybody out. Hated to lose that dog, hated to lose him... but it sure was nice being free.

Well, right now, that's how I feel about the 2013 Yankees. I would not compare this team's post-season elimination to the death of an actual human family member. That's sort of like the over-the-top Obama/Hitler comparisons thrown about by those right-wing radio Goebbels gerbils. But the death of a pet... yeah. That sums it up.

This week, our beloved Yankee pooch went from dying to dead. Thank God it's over.


For the last three months, we wrestled a losing battle with hope.  We knew the dog was too old to recover, but now and then, he had a good day. We convinced ourselves his perkiness resulted from some new diet or pain pill, and he would at least last through October. Then we played Boston, and he crapped all over our living room carpet - I mean, it was awful.

Well, he's gone. No more nights listening to Michael Kay banter with Coney, or Paul, or himself. No more false hopes. Last night, while driving, I chanced upon The Master for an inning. He sounded like a priest at a funeral. Yeah, Suzyn droned a bit about the injuries - how they sapped our strength. (So go the talking points: It's like the Scooby Doo zombie who rips off his mask, turns out to be mean old Mr. Levine, and yells, "If not for those pesky injuries....!") But when Tampa scored, they didn't really care.

Don't get me wrong: I loved this team. I gave it everything. But we are free. No more Vernon Wells-sized turds in my front lawn.  No more Ichiro, scratching a 3-0 count into a routine pop fly. No more wondering where Joba ran off to, or getting complaints from the neighbors about Phil Hughes. Old Spotty is in the grave. Treasure the memories, folks. But there are better ways to spend our evenings than with a batting order that suffers from  incontinence.

The playoffs loom. Don Mattingly v. AJ Burnett? Nick Swisher v. Austin Jackson? Boston v. the World? Maybe I'll sit with them a night or two. But nobody can replace old Gardy, Robbie and Mariano. God, I loved that dog.