We’ve been talking a lot about dogs in our house lately.

Our 11-year-old son Alec wants one and wants one badly, so much so that I’d like to get him one just to see the look of utter joy on his face. Then I’d like to put both the dog and Alec into a time machine and transport them back to before they met so they’d never know the difference.

We’re not dog-haters or anything. I grew up with a very nice little mutt named Hondo, who “sang” along to the Carpenter’s song “Close to You” whenever I played it on the piano. Or was it when I sang the song so loudly and played the piano so badly that she howled in pain? Either way, it was really cute.

My parents didn’t want a dog either. They had had one when my brothers and sister were little and the story goes that it snapped at me when they brought me home from the hospital and my mother ordered it out of the house. My brother Richard still thinks Pepper went to live on a farm. And all of my siblings still resent me a little to this day.

But when I was eight and out of immediate danger apparently, my brothers wore down our mother and  brought a new puppy home and named her Hondo, which was the nickname of Boston Celtics great John Havlicek, I imagine because Bulls guard Jerry Sloan wasn’t a good dog name. Our father was not pleased and our mother still wasn’t thrilled, so we had one of those dogs who was not allowed to go upstairs, on furniture, in certain rooms, on certain rugs or really, to act like a dog in any way.

She went out by herself, “did her business,” as my dad used to say, and returned home like the day laborer she was.  I think she carried a lunch box and thermos. Of course in those days, no one cared if you didn’t keep your dog on a leash or didn’t pick up after her “business.” Or if they cared, no one said anything and Hondo was very happy making her way – no pun intended – through the alleys of our neighborhood.

My father wouldn’t admit it, but he grew to really love Hondo. When she was sick, he gave her Campbell’s chicken noodle soup like she was one of us. My mom co-existed peacefully with Hondo as long as she stayed in her own area. Except once a year, on the Fourth of July while we were all out of the house, Hondo would become very nervous at the sound of fireworks, sneak upstairs, go into my parents’ bedroom – no doubt looking to be comforted – and throw up in my mother’s knitting basket.

When Hondo passed away, we were all very sad. I was away at college when it happened and my mother, afraid of how I would take the news, elected not to tell me on the phone. Instead, when I came home a week later, she cushioned the blow by running down the driveway shouting, “HONDO’S DEAD.”

This could be why I was not in so much of a hurry to get a dog as an adult.

The official reason is that I’m allergic. And I am. Really. My husband, who never had a dog and is not allergic, thinks a dog would be a major inconvenience and we would never be able to leave the house again, ever.

Together, we agree that at least one adult in the house should be really committed and fully prepared for a dog before bringing it into the family, even though people have babies all the time without adhering to this rule. For his part, Alec calls up puppy websites every day, makes us look at them and occasionally prints out their photos for mounting around the house.

For a long time, none of this was an issue because we were those people everyone wonders about with kids who were afraid of dogs. Our children would cower in our front yard or at people’s houses when dogs were present and the owners would always give us suspicious, slightly dirty looks as if to say, “What kind of filthy lies could you have possibly told your children about animals that would make them so afraid?”

OK, I’ll tell you what we did.

Once, when Amanda was two, an unleashed dog (I know, just like Hondo) ran up to her, knocked her down and when she jumped up screaming, chased her through the park with me in close pursuit. OK, so the dog was roughly the size of one of her shoes and could not have inflicted much damage. But Amanda did not know that. And the worst part was when I caught up to them and the dog was on top of her (OK, kissing her) and she was hysterical, the owner lectured me on how I should not allow her to be so scared of dogs.

Good thing I’m so polite by nature or I may have said something I’d later regret about her and her out-of-control Chihuahua.

Alec may have gotten knocked down once or twice too. It’s hard to remember the second-child stories. Or maybe he just saw Amanda flinch and run whenever a dog was present and was unduly influenced. Whatever the case, both children were deathly afraid and anti-dog until fairly recently, when a former friend got a Shih-poo for her kids.

If the name Shih-poo wasn’t bad enough, the dog happened to be cute and, just our luck, loved Alec and Alec loved her. The former friend encouraged this relationship and what’s worse, calls and persuades us to buy a dog with a ridiculous name as well.

So now we talk about dogs a lot. And look at their pictures.

And maybe some day, we’ll even visit Alec’s dog at his house.

I would have written sooner, but I was busy watching the 102nd hour of continuous live coverage on the death of Michael Jackson.

I am now taking meals in front of CNN and am thinking of installing a TV in the shower so I can still maintain some semblance of personal hygiene while all of this is playing out.

I am not proud of this facet of my personality. But I figure if I wasn’t addicted to lurid and gross over-exposure of news events, it might be something even worse, like mah jong.

I believe it all began with the 1991 trial of William Kennedy Smith. I was fortunate to have been miserably sick with a long flu of some kind during that one, which allowed me a convenient excuse if anyone asked why an otherwise normal woman would find this so compelling.

I’m not sure what my excuse was during the Menendez brothers’ murder trial  in ’93, but I know I was pregnant during the O.J. Simpson trial in ’95.

I was also gainfully employed during these years, so it wasn’t like I could watch all the time, but I think that’s actually what got me hooked.  With the advent of televised trials and continuous coverage of events like these really heating up, that was the intent. Keep repeating the same news loop over and over, but with EXCLUSIVE and BREAKING NEWS over the headlines, so that your viewers always felt in danger of missing something if they walked away or turned the TV off.

As a seasoned, veteran journalist by that time, I fell for all of it and still do.

As my husband Rick reminded me last night when he walked into the bedroom, saw me still glued to the Michael Jackson coverage and asked sarcastically, “Is he still dead?” I have a problem. Of course, I don’t see it that way.

When Princess Diana was killed in 1997, yes, I did watch the coverage into the wee hours of the morning, the next day, the day after and the day after that. But I loved Princess Diana. When I covered Wimbledon through much of the 1980’s and most of the 90’s, the press section was situated next to the Royal Box, so we would get an up-close view of Diana and sometimes even the kids.

Often, a match would be in a fifth-set tiebreaker or Boris Becker would dive across the court with a shot for the ages, and I would have to ask what happened because I was watching Diana adjust her binoculars.  

It sounds a lot more disturbing than it really is and trust me, I was the source to go to for any breaking Diana news at the time.

And just so I don’t sound like I am simply obsessed with celebrity deaths, I was also addicted to the 1987 continuing coverage of little Jessica McClure, when she fell down a well in Midland, Texas, and that had a good ending.

I should also point out here, just for clarification, that I do not slow down and rubber-neck when I pass accidents on the side of a highway.  I am also disgusted at the practice of gathering in person on the scene of tragedies, like those who stood around the outside of the hospital where Michael Jackson died or actually got in their cars and drove to his rented mansion. You’ve seen these people, the ones standing behind police barricades at midnight with small children clinging to their legs.

“I thought it was important for her to see history,” said one woman the other night, pointing to her dazed and half-asleep child holding a “We Love Michael” sign.

Now, that’s sick.

Me? I kept watching last night because they promised BREAKING NEWS and I always trust Anderson Cooper, even when he knows there is not going to be any actual breaking news but still another interview with Deepak Chopra, who, I swear, at one point was live on two cable shows at the same time.  

I also kept watching because every time they’d play a snippet of a Michael Jackson performance, I somehow held out hope that they would return from commercial and just run a full-blown concert, beginning with the Jackson 5 days.

Eventually, I gave up and my son and I put in the Michael Jackson History on Film Vol. II DVD the kids loved  when they were little, and then Alec slipped out of the room and I found him watching some You Tube performances of the Jackson 5.

And finally, something beat out the continuous live coverage.

If I was a Cubs fan, I might not feel this way. And if I was a man, I know I would not feel this way.  But as a woman and an impartial observer, I was fascinated by the confrontation between Cubs manager Lou Piniella and his “star” rightfielder Milton Bradley this weekend.

I put star in quote marks because Bradley has not played this season like someone paid $30 million for three years is expected to perform. The Cubs knew they were taking a chance in signing him because Bradley, for all of his wondrous talents, has a long history of acting like a deranged two-year-old in need of a nap.

But the part that really interested me was how much the two men acted like women this weekend – or at least like women are often stereotyped.

I will not stereotype because I learned in journalism school that this is not a good thing to do. And also because it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as what I am going to do instead, and that’s to project how I and most women I know would act if we were in the same situation.

The problem started when Bradley, after flying out against the Sox on Friday (the day after being benched for poor performance in Detroit), threw his helmet in the dugout and smashed the water cooler.

OK, this part is a little hard for me to envision for myself or any woman I know since women, as a general rule, do not resort to smashing and throwing. For example, when I strike out repeatedly in softball, I usually come into the dugout and apologize to all of my teammates for being so bad, and if no one consoles me, I will start making excuses like the pitcher is putting too much spin on the ball or I can’t find a bat that isn’t way too heavy. Suffice to say, I do much more talking than smashing.

Next, Piniella ordered Bradley to take off his uniform and leave the ballpark, after which Piniella said Bradley mumbled something under his breath.  That’s when Piniella followed Bradley into the clubhouse and yelled at him, “You’re not a player, you’re a piece of s—.”

Piniella was angry not just because Bradley has not been hitting this season, but because he’s a monumental pain, getting ejected and suspended for arguing in his first Wrigley Field at-bat; complaining that umpires pick on him; continuing his reputation for nursing seemingly minor injuries; and flinging helmets when things don’t go his way.

I am not going to say women do not say things we wish we hadn’t. I’m guessing there are even women in management positions who have resorted to cursing at an employee who has been as big an annoyance as Bradley has. I think, again not to stereotype, that most of us would be a little more clever than Piniella in his choice of words, but that’s being nit-picky.

One of the things that set Lou off was that someone – and he accused clubhouse workers at Sox Park – gossiped to the media about his verbal assault.

I suspect it was Bradley who blabbed to one too many people about what Lou said, and that’s what got back to a Sun-Times reporter. But this would not happen to most women. Why? Because we have all learned that when saying anything gossip-worthy in a public place – good or bad and no matter how far from your home base – you always take a long look around first, lower your voice and use made-up names.

Before Friday’s game, Bradley told Tribune reporter Paul Sullivan that he was not bonding with his teammates.

“I had a good rapport with [fired hitting coach Gerald Perry],” Bradley said.” I trusted Gerald and I could talk to him, and he’s gone. I think I clicked with [ex-Cub outfielder Joey] Gathright and he’s gone. So you just kind of feel like you’re on an island, and trying to stay afloat.

“The teammates, they’re there and they say all the right things, but it’s just [small talk]. . .

“I’m really not a guy who’s seeking any attention. I’m not seeking to be noticed . . . I just want to be part of a group and fit in and just love and be loved. That’s the basis of what I am . . . Maybe years ago I might have thought I wanted all this, but I really don’t want all the attention.”

OK, first let me just say that if a woman in a prominent position making $30 million said something like this publicly, she would be ridiculed in every newspaper, Internet blog and People Magazine for weeks, perhaps months. Let me also say that if Bradley was a woman, most women I know would consider her one of those whiny, needy, extremely annoying types that make you change aisles when you see her heading your way behind a grocery cart.

Bradley’s teammate, Derrek Lee, called Bradley at home that night after the fight with Piniella, reassured him that all of his teammates liked him and urged him to come early to the game the next day and not to sulk.  

If he was a woman, Lee would be heading up the most troublesome committee on the PTA, the kind of woman I could never be because I lack the patience. I would be much more likely to hurl expletives, a la Piniella, than to call Bradley and reassure him after that display.

The next day, Piniella apologized to Bradley for cursing at him, and told reporters he felt badly all evening.

“We won a ballgame yesterday and I didn’t enjoy the win at all,” Lou said. “I had dinner with my wife last night. It was on my mind all night. . . . It really took the joy out of winning a baseball game.”

This would be about the point where, if I was playing the Lou part, my husband would tell me to forget about it, that everything would be fine. In other words – he would be completely irritated that I would dwell on a silly argument all night and allow it to ruin dinner. 

Piniella took Bradley into his office where Bradley said the two “shed some tears.”

“He didn’t feel good about the situation and neither did I,” Bradley said. “We had a heartfelt talk and we’re both the better for it.”

And finally, a female moment I can relate to.

If you are famous in America, you are what your obit says you are. Usually, it’s boiled down to some silly line you uttered in a commercial, your divorces or other legal problems. If you’re lucky, your accomplishments are great enough to make the lead paragraph.

I’m glad I’m not writing Michael Jackson’s obit.

I can’t think of a more conflicting legacy than that of Michael Jackson’s.

I flash back almost immediately to the memory of watching the Brady Bunch and Partridge Family in the late 60s and 70s like most every other white kid in this country, and then being absolutely knocked silly by the talents of Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five.

The dancing was unlike anything I ever saw, the music made you want to dance. And it didn’t matter what race you were, it was intoxicating.

I was a senior in high school when Off the Wall came out. Three years later, in 1982, came Thriller. And if you claimed not to play both until the grooves wore thin, you were lying. We crowded around the television to see the premiere of the video on a new network called MTV.

I remember watching Michael moonwalk on the Motown special in ’83 and I may as well have been watching the real moonwalk, surreal as it was.

He was in his prime, sexy, though no girlfriends in sight. Brooke Shields on his arm in one photo, Emmanuel Lewis in another. Then came the pet chimp Bubbles and the plastic surgery. He was sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber?

He was eccentric. He said he was abused as a child. He lived in an amusement park with llamas.

He was married to Lisa Marie. He wasn’t married.

The plastic surgery continued. You wanted him to dance more, but he mostly grabbed his crotch. Other artists came around, many copying his.

There was the child molestation suit, a settlement and then the documentary in which he brazenly talked about sharing his bed with children. He became a father, but didn’t seem interested in his kids having a mother. He named his two sons Prince, nicknamed one Blanket, then dangled the baby off a balcony in a clip that still makes me nervous to watch.

Was he a martyr or a criminal?

I was repulsed by him, didn’t know what to make of him, forgot about the music.

He was indeed a pop icon. And a troubled man.

The obits will say it all.

Sadly.

I just wish I could talk to him one more time.

No, that’s not right.

I wish I could talk to him 100 more times, listen to his stories, hear him sing, ask him for some more advice, soak up more knowledge, laugh at his wonderful self-deprecating humor.

I wish I had known John Callaway when I first broke into the business so I had more years to benefit from our friendship. But I know I couldn’t miss him any more than I do today.

Callaway’s passing Tuesday night is a loss for Chicago, a loss for journalism and a loss for anyone who ever experienced, either in person or via his work, his professionalism and the decency of the man.

There are going to be plenty of obits and tributes in the coming days and I can imagine him shaking his head and deflecting all the wonderful words of praise that will be heaped upon his memory. They will say that he was the best interviewer around and they still won’t do him justice.

I had the honor of being on his panel on WTTW’s Chicago Tonight over the years, and being interviewed by him twice on Friday Night. The first time was a year and a half ago, when he talked to me about the Tribune Magazine piece I had written about my parents’ battle with Alzheimer’s, and just hearing his voice speak the names of my parents in that beautiful baritone of his to open the show was like stepping into another dimension for me.

The final time was last month, when I came on to promote my biography of Lou Piniella. Mostly, however, we talked about my layoff from the Tribune after 19 years just a couple weeks earlier. Like the first interview, it was obviously a very personal and emotional topic for me, and one that I know I couldn’t have spoken about publicly at that point with anyone other than John Callaway.

I felt warm and protected, not because I considered him a friend, but because I knew his preparation was, as always, meticulous. I knew he would lead me in a direction I didn’t even know I was going but would naturally follow because he was so incredibly good at what he did.

There were no great secrets to what made Callaway so good. Certainly no shortcuts. We spent no more than five or six minutes talking about my book but he had read every word of it, his questions reflected it and his audience, as always, benefitted from it.

In an interview with the Tribune, Callaway explained his craft and revealed why he was so masterful at it.

“A good interview,” he said, “at a really deep level just requires preparation beyond anything that I can tell you. When I was doing the old `John Callaway Interviews,’ the national series that we did for a couple of years, when I interviewed Updike, I think I read everything that he wrote. And I want to tell you, pal, that’s a lot. That’s a lot. And you want to know something? He knew it about 12 seconds into that interview. He knew it. And he came to play, and I came to play.”

You can’t fool most interview subjects and Callaway knew that and lived that. There is no cheating. To be a good interviewer, he said, is to be truly engaged.

When you lose a John Callaway, there is just simply a void. His was a voice unlike any another. He had an authenticity unlike any other. Work ethic is, unfortunately, a concept his generation did not subscribe to as if it was an option. They just held to it.  But more than that was his generosity.

When I lost my job at the Tribune, I made a list of people of the smartest people I knew, those whose advice I wanted and needed. He was among the first people I called and the first who responded.  And he continued to keep in touch even after I stopped, offering ideas for me, encouragement, giving recommendations to people he thought could help me, signing each e-mail with warmest best wishes, love and hugs.

I suspect I was not the only journalist he ever helped.

With all my heart, I will try to return that generosity.

He was a dear man. And I miss him already.