Ralph Gardner Jr.

It wasn’t my idea, but we’re getting a puppy. Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs. A home without one is just a house. Especially our house. It’s large and rambling and buried deep in the woods. If ever a domicile and its residents were crying out for canine companionship this is the place.

Apparently they’ve given a name, or names, to that time of life when you’ve hit your late fifties, sixties or seventies and you’ve retained use of your motor skills, most of your marbles and cling to the belief that fame and fortune remain within reach.

My father used to describe himself as a “fun dad." He probably cribbed the expression from some Sixties TV commercial involving a father doing stereotypical things with his child like playing catch or frolicking in their backyard pool.

Who should I find sitting in the Moynihan Train Hall at Penn Station recently but my urologist. This isn’t some set-up for a Rodney Dangerfield or Henny Youngman joke. For those who visit the spanking newish facility and fear its architects forgot to include seating – a Google search comes up with lots of Reddit posts in often colorful language decrying the absence of benches -- there’s a ticketed waiting area adjoining the main concourse on the east side of the station.

We’re a spoiled, pampered people. If you disagree with me I ask you to consider a felicitous feature of daily life that most of us take for granted -- our refrigerator’s ice maker. So did I until we recently acquired a new fridge without one.

If you’re coming to visit our home don’t worry about removing your shoes. We had lots of guests over the holidays and the first question they’d ask --sometimes they didn’t even ask before slipping out of them -- was “Do you want us to take our shoes off?”

If I were a better person I’d try to ignore the news, declining my phone’s Pavlovian invitation constantly to refresh the New York Times and Washington Post apps. This is, arguably, the most tranquil week of the year and we should embrace the excuse it offers to avoid the world’s turmoil.

Christmas Eve means it’s time to start holiday shopping. I jest. I’ve been shopping for days. At least one day. Last Saturday I made my annual pilgrimage to Great Barrington and Fluff Alpaca. I’m not very good at coming up with gift ideas. What I’ve learned is that you can give the same gift, or category of gift, year after year. People come to rely on your lack of creativity; I mean predictability.

I can’t recall what my pitch was that persuaded Henry Kissinger to give me an interview. Kissinger, who died at the age of 100 on November 29th, was friendly with the press and adept at using it to bend the political narrative to his will. Still, I doubt he would have agreed to get together with me if he’d known my agenda. I was looking for an excuse to write about my long, reluctant years as a dancing school student and then bouncer.

At Thanksgiving we went around the dinner table and volunteered what we were thankful for. I don’t recall what my answer was when my turn came. Hopefully, the conversation had strayed in a different direction by that point because I’m not very good at thinking on the spot.