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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 131 W hen my daughter began attending middle school, I brought home an imaginary dog to help me deal with the stress. His name was Rectum. We had old-fashioned cord telephones back then, with several distributed about the house for general convenience. When a nervous, crackly voiced boy would call Keni, I would allow just enough time for their conversation to stumble its way into something of a rhythm. Then, motivated by the deep concern common to all responsible pet owners, I would pick up one of the other phones. "Keni, have you seen my Rectum?" "Dad." "Where is that noisy little guy? Rectum!" "Daddy!" Keni's older brother, Ross, would then enjoin the frantic search. "Dad, are you looking for Rectum? I heard him bark a few minutes ago, but haven't seen him since I got home from school. Rectum!" "Rectum!" "Mom!" The possibility of maternal involvement would bring about the immediate suspension of all efforts at location, said matriarch having never developed anything approximating an overt fondness for dogs in general and Rectum in particular. There were, however, few repeat callers. Rectum earned his keep. I've always made it a point to show my daughter how much I love her. It's a words versus deeds thing, as simple declarations come easy. Absent a strong sense of right and wrong, many of my efforts during her formative years did manifest themselves in unusual fashion, but Keni navigated each embarrassment and all the teasing with a practiced if not resolved stride. I stood in for her mother at the Blue Bird "Fly Up" ceremony while wearing a backless sun dress and matching chapeau, chauffeured her to the first school dance with underwear on my head, and volunteered to chaperone at every function where I could wear dark glasses and full tactical gear. Boys with enough salt to come 'round were always treated to a hand-on-their-shoulder tour of my trophy room. I treasured these special bonding opportunities, as they afforded the chance to explain that the proper way to skin a grizzly bear begins with an incision at the logical central point, the initial cuts then radiating outward along the inside of each hind leg and finally winding around the foot pads so the toes can be individually broken and freed. The key to getting it right, which I took great care to emphasize, was to first secure the only natural handhold and then use a sharp, pointed knife that would part the skin with minimal effort. To ensure every nuance of this procedure was fully absorbed and very likely to be retained for the foreseeable future, I would pantomime each step while maintaining unbroken eye contact to such an extent my guest made it possible. Once the explanation had concluded, the courtesy of an extended pause would then provide ample opportunity for reflection. "So, do you clearly understand how this works? I can go over it again if necessary, although the look on your face suggests everything is crystal." "Daddy!" "Yes, Mr. Van Brunt," would come the tentative answer. "No need to be formal here, son. You may call me Sir. Now, would you like to meet my dog?" "Mom!" Keni's first-time guests always seemed to arrive when the kitchen table was covered with knives to sharpen or guns to clean, and I took great pride in redirecting several promising athletic careers with a bone-crushing handshake. Even before it was possible for her to understand, I teased Keni mercilessly. As a toddler, when the breadth of her stubborn streak would show, I'd brush it off by remarking, "I feel sorry for your first husband." Rather than teaching her trivial skills like how to count or recite the alphabet, I concentrated instead on the important lessons every little girl should learn from her father.