Seeing teenagers traipse about downtown, dressed as adults are supposed to but almost never actually do, it's clear that the dreaded prom season is upon us again. Which reminds me of my high school prom.

[Cue wind chimes and Kenny G.]

It was a dark time: an age when the Internet was known only to a smattering of engineering students... when Hammer pants walked the halls... when Monty Python quotes were shrilly bellowed by drama geeks no one else wanted to hang out with. It was a time of... Vanilla Ice!

[Cue opening riff that is NOT a straight sample from "Under Pressure" by David Bowie and Queen.]

"Ice Ice Baby" ruled the airwaves and the hallways. My prom date — who initially refused my invitation by informing me she was waiting for someone else to ask her, then recanted when she found out the someone else had asked another girl — loved the esteemed Robert Van Winkle. The walls of her bedroom were covered with his posters; she bought (and actually listened to) all of To the Extreme, not just the "Ice Ice Baby" single; and she made me promise to wait in line with her overnight for tickets to Vanilla Ice's big-screen debut, the immortal classic Cool as Ice ("Yo, drop the zero and get wit' da hero").

Wanting to impress my date, I studied Vanilla's moves like a monk poring over a sacred text. I grew my hair out and emptied two bottles of gel to craft Vanilla's skunk-striped alpine swoop. Then, in lieu of a tuxedo, I saved up my allowance and purchased a rainbow-colored suit EXACTLY like the one he wore on the MTV Music Awards.

On prom night, I surprised my date with a zebra-striped limousine — with no Brockman inside. She was taken to an extravagant dinner, which she ate alone, as I let the surprise build. Seemingly dateless, she stood off to one corner of the gym as the other couples mingled and made out and Roger Rabbited across the makeshift dance floor.

Then — the opening riff started. A spotlight swung toward the doors as my homies swung them wide and I stood revealed, in all my glorious whitey-whiteness. "Yo V.I.P., let's kick it!"

A great cheer rippled through the crowd. I caught my date's eyes across the gym and flashed the Iceman's hand signal. I strode into the gym, the sea of teenagers parted like... I don't know, something bible-y, and I launched into my performance.

At which point the adulation swiftly died. No amount of practice could give me Vanilla Ice's agility, dexterity, his pure, unrehearsed, absolute mastery of the dance floor. He was Vanilla; I was merely plain. In moments, the gap closed and I found myself standing outside the crowd, my date swiftly escaping out the rear doors.

To this day I wonder if my clumsiness cost me the love of my life. The last I heard, she'd married a student who had mastered Color Me Badd's dance steps to the last foot stomp.

Chester? Who is this Chester people have been talking about, and what gives with last weekend's visit to the pound?

"Another dog," Bagheera frets. "The forever end of our peace and quiet."

"Hey!" Zooey barks. "When's the last time I infringed on your precious peace and quiet?"

"You're old," Fup reminds him. "Young dogs can be a pain."

"Oh, but young cats are a dream."

Oreo, meanwhile, can hardly contain himself. It's no good, he knows, getting so excited that he'll only be let down when it turns out Chester's not a dog but a vet or a lab tech or something. He tears at the scratching post. He can't help himself — another dog!

Fup parks herself beside the big yellow Lab. "What have they told you?" she asks. "What do you know?" Receiving only a shrug, she calls across the room to Bear: "Get the cookie jar." They have ways of making him talk.