In 1997 movie fans were introduced to a character that would prove to be so popular, he would spawn four sequels and a spin-off franchise that consisted of an additional four separate films. These nine movies would cement this character’s place in film history — for better or worse.

I, of course, am talking about Air Bud, the dog who plays sports better then most humans live their lives.

While Air Bud has long since been retired (probably enjoying his twilight years as a sports commentator on ESPN 2), his children have carried on his legacy with the Air Buddies series of films.

While Air Bud was the jack-of-all-trades when it came to sports, his children, it seems, were given the short straw when it came to the athletic gene. Instead of being able to play any sport with equal talent, the pups are each assigned a particular sport (and personality) to conform to during the films.

B-Dawg, a hip-hop centric pup, plays basketball. Budderball, a dog with a constant appetite for treats, plays football. Rosebud, the only female in the group (who of course, like all girls, is obsessed with fashion), plays soccer. Bud-dha plays baseball and is obsessed with meditation and spiritual oneness. Finally, Mudball, a laid-back slacker with a penchant for getting dirty, plays volleyball.

By bringing together a collection of stereotypes, clichés and cliques, the films are essentially The Breakfast Club of sports dog movies.

In Santa Buddies, the latest film staring America’s most-tolerated talking dogs, the pups must team up with Puppy Paws, the son of Santa’s partner in Christmas, Santa Paws.

Yes, it seams that Christmas is too big of a task for a simple human to pull off so he must team yearly with a talking dog in order to deliver presents to all the good boys, girls and puppies. Kittens are screwed.

When Puppy Paws decides he no longer wants any part of the Christmas racket and only wants to be a normal puppy, he escapes from the North Pole to find the Air Buddies, a group of dogs he feels to be the epitome of good ol’ fashioned puppy Americana.

Unfortunately, with Puppy Paws gone, the North Pole’s magic reserve is in danger of running out of juice. Can the Air Buddies convince Puppy Paws of his place in the world and take him back home before Christmas is ruined for everybody?

It’s a Disney movie — what do you think?

The film ultimately suffers from lack of anything remotely resembling excitement. For talking animals that are also walking clichés, the dogs in the movies are completely devoid of character. Sure, the dogs each have their own unique personality, but almost 80 percent of the film is spent on static camera shots of the dogs sitting perfectly still as their mouths are moved via computer effects and dubbed children’s voices say inane drivel about the meaning of Christmas and holiday magic.

With an emphasis on puppies standing still as they talk instead of footage of puppies doing cute and rambunctious things (like, oh I don’t know, playing sports), the film is actually kind of reminiscent of an Art House picture.

The few human actors brought in for the movie are wasted as they are used as pure window dressing for the dogs’ antics (or lack thereof).  George Wendt spends the majority of his time playing Santa Claus staring blankly at a dog while it sits perfectly still and pretends to speak. Christopher Lloyd is a grinchy old dogcatcher who has forgotten the spirit of Christmas.

On a side note — why is the dogcatcher always portrayed as the villain? He’s just doing his job.

Sure his job is to catch puppies, put them into a cage and, if nobody wants them, eventually kill the puppies — but how would you like it if dogs overran your neighborhood?

Santa Buddies is a bad movie — but it is essentially harmless. There is no innuendo or double entendre that might inadvertently warp the minds of young kids and the message it tries to deliver is solid. What kid couldn’t use a crash course in the true meaning of Christmas?

While the film may be boring beyond belief for adults, it’s an acceptable distraction for tiny toddlers who go gaga for talking dogs (regardless of how stupid what they are saying really is).

The movie does look pretty good on Blu-ray. Unfortunately, the only extras are a music video and sing-along karaoke videos that manage to be even more bland and uninviting then the movie itself.

Would I recommend watching the film? Only if you are younger then three or have just received a lobotomy.

IMDB Score: 6.3 out of 10

Rotten Tomatoes Score: 39 out of 100

The tagline for this late ‘80s Walt Disney cartoon proclaims “Oliver & Company” to be the “first Disney movie with attitude.”

In pre-9/11 New York, it was not uncommon to see dogs driving taxis. How times have changed.

Apparently, having attitude translates to featuring animals that are portrayed as racial caricatures that perpetrate stereotypes.

All ribbing aside, I have a special spot in my heart for “Oliver & Company” — a spot in my chest cavity that no amount of now-dated ‘80s references can chip away at. The film may not be a perfect (or, as I’m sure hack critics liked to say upon the film’s release, “purr-fect”) movie but it has its charming moments.

Taking the original Charles Dickens’s story of “Oliver Twist” and placing it through the Disneyfication process, the movie is a about Oliver, a lonely kitten who is taken in by a gang of pick-pocketing canines. After he is accidently adopted by a Disney standard-issue precocious brat, Oliver has to choose between his furry friends and his new life as the pampered pet of a 5^th Avenue latch-key kid.

Featuring the voice talents of Joey Lawrence, Billy Joel, Cheech Marin, Dom DeLuise and Bette Midler, “Oliver & Company” is very much a film of its time. Seeped in that special kind of ‘80s cool that featured a predominate use of sunglasses, piano solos and heavy eye shadow, the movie is a soulless piece of commercial consumerism disguised as a talking animal picture. Heck, Huey Lewis sings the movie’s opening song.

While Mr. Lewis may be a little too “black sounding” for some, his presence in the film helped usher in the new era of Disney cartoons that was as conscious of its marketing tie-in potential as it was its character design.

Like I mentioned above, though, I have a special fondness for the film. I remember constantly watching the movie with my sister when we were young — each of us trying to outdo the other with our Tito impressions.

While now I can look at “Oliver & Company” as the bitter cynic that I have become and see a latent racism behind the stereotypical Latino Chihuahua voiced by Cheech Marin, back then I was just happy to see a Hispanic character in a cartoon.

It is this kind of childlike sense of forgiveness that I’m trying to recapture with my yearlong bad movie experiment. I want to remember what it was like to be able to watch a movie and not constantly be on the look out for things to dislike or get angry about.

I don’t know if this pessimistic attitude was created during my stint as a movie critic or if it is a byproduct of having seen so many movies during my short-life, but it is definitely a habit that I feel the need to break.

So for the rest of the space I have allocated myself for this column, I will focus on the positives:

I loved, loved, loved Billy Joel’s very cheesy yet very catchy musical number “Why Should I Worry.” I had forgotten how much I liked that song and, after hearing it again, instantly went out and purchased it off iTunes.

Also, I can get behind any animated movie that features a loan shark as the antagonist. How very ‘80s of Disney! Don’t we have enough cartoons that feature mustache-twirling evil relatives as the bad guys? It’s nice to see a villain that is more concerned about the profit-line then he’s concerned about marrying the princess against her will.

“Oliver & Company” may not be a great film and it may not have aged well, but neither have most ‘80s Disney cartoons. At least this one has a Billy Joel song.

My dog loved me even when I was at my heaviest — probably because she was afraid that if she didn't love me, I would have eaten her.

During our walks, Foxy would often set the pace – pulling me behind her as she raced from scent to scent. If we crossed the path of a jogger, I would have to brace myself unless I wanted my arm tugged out of socket.

A friendly dog perpetually starved for attention, Foxy wanted to play with everybody we passed. The fact that Foxy seemed so friendly with everybody she met did not inspire confidence in her ability to protect my apartment (and me) from any intruders. If somebody was to break into my home while I was gone, I felt that my dog would let them take whatever they wanted if only they scratched behind her ears.

While working for the newspaper, I became nocturnal. Coming home from work after midnight, I would stay up until four in the morning. One night in particular, I was playing video games at 3 a.m. when I heard a knock at my door. Assuming my TV was too loud and an angry neighbor had come to complain, I looked for a pair of shorts to put on so that I could open the door.

As I shuffled about in search of pants, the knocks at my door grew in their frequency. Soon, the knocks had turned into pounding and, when I had still not opened the door, the pounding at the door became pounding at my window.

Unsure of exactly what was going on, I opened the door with caution.

Standing outside were two ratty women. Their faces plastered with too much makeup and their skanky clothes reeking of cigarettes, the woman looked me up and down.

“We’re here to see your nephew,” one of the women said.

“I don’t have any nephews here,” I replied and began to close the door.

Before I could shut the door all the way, though, one of the women shoved her hand in the way and, with a surprising strength, pulled the door back open.

“Uh uh,” she said. “We were here last week with your nephew. Where is he?”

“You’ve got the wrong apartment,” I said, now kind of tense about what was going on. The woman holding the door was exerting real strength in trying to pull it open even wider.

I started to panic as I played tug-a-war with the woman over my door. Foxy must have sensed my unease because out of nowhere she appeared between my legs, her hair standing straight up. Letting loose a “Call of the Wild”-esque growl, she quickly attracted the attention of the two women. Their eyes drawn to the visibly upset dog standing in the doorway, the two jumped back just enough for me to gain the upper hand in our match of strength. I closed the door and locked it.

While I went to the nearest window and peered out, Foxy continued to growl at the woman. The two streetwalkers stayed on my porch for ten more minutes, smoking a succession of cigarettes. Foxy continued to growl, never backing down. Eventually the woman disappeared into the alleyway behind my apartment, leaving me to attempt sleep, now possessing a newly acquired fear of prostitutes.

The next day I went to McDonalds and bought my dog the biggest hamburger I could buy for a dollar. While she may not have associated the reward with her actions the previous night, I felt the need to shower my dog with a gift — not for saving my life (I felt relatively confident that, if push came to shove, I could take the two prostitutes in a fight) but to thank Foxy from saving me the embarrassment of having to contact the police and let them know I was the victim of a home invasion by two hookers.

I miss my dog.

Her body may have grown since she was a puppy, but her head has stayed about the same size.

When signing my lease last year, I made the decision to leave Foxy, my dog, with my parents.

My choice was the result of several factors — the most pressing being that my dog was over the apartment complex’s weight limit and a mix of two breeds, Chow and German Sheppard, that were specifically outlawed by the complex.

Even if my dog had been OK’d by the apartment complex or I had chosen to fight the rules, I would have probably made the same decision — my dog will be happier living with my parents in a house with a big back yard and plenty of space to run. While my brain tells me that Foxy is happier where she is and that I can (and do) go to visit her as often as I want, I still miss my dog.

I didn’t meet Foxy until she was several months old. My parents bought her while I was living in College Station, urged on by my sister during the last summer she lived at my parents’ house. When I finally was introduced to my parent’s new dog, Foxy had outgrown her awkward puppy phase and was a full-fledged galloping horse of a dog — all long legs that seemed to be perpetually running. Full of youthful energy, she would speed around the living room, jumping into anybody and everybody’s lap — despite the fact that she was the size of most full-grown dogs.

For the first few years of her life, I kept my distance from Foxy. This was the first dog my parents had bought since I left home. A replacement if there ever was one, Foxy was often the main topic of conversations with my parents; stories told in the same tone of voice one would reserve for bragging about their kids.

I heard about how smart the dog was or what cute thing she had done that week. I would come home and find that the dog had clamed my favorite spot on the couch for herself. I truly felt that the dog was slowly edging me out of my parents’ lives.

After I graduated from college and went to live in my first roommateless apartment, my parents asked me if I would like to adopt Foxy. My parents thought I would appreciate the company – even if it walked on four legs and liked to drink out of the toilet bowl.

There was also the fact that my parents were getting older. No longer able to keep up with Foxy’s constant craving for attention or love for walks, my parents were all too happy to hand her off. So, with a passing of the leash, Foxy ceased to be my parent’s dog and became mine.

It took some adjustment during the first months of having a dog. I was no longer able to sleep in late unless I wanted to wake up to a wet spot on the carpet. Since my apartment was too small for a kitchen table, I often used to eat off of my coffee table while sitting on the floor. Foxy soon became aware of the fact that this proved to be the perfect height for run-by food theft. If I took my eyes off my dinner at any point, I could be assured that I would turn back to find it in my dog’s mouth.

Not having the heart to lock her in her kennel at night, I would let her roam free while I slept – figuring she would find a nice spot on the couch to sleep. Foxy had other ideas. Every night she would jump onto my bed — leaving little room for me on the twin sized mattress. I would push her to the foot of the bed but during the night she would slowly make her way up until she was sleeping on top of my head.

Foxy could be as spoiled as she wanted to though. She earned it the night she saved my life.
To be continued…

A close approximation to the kind of danger that OJ and I faced ... you know, except a lot scarier.

I would bet him I could balance on an irrigation pipe longer then he could and he would respond by challenging me to a foot race. Our competitive nature led us to engage in many duels — from barbwire fence hopping to impromptu wrestling matches. It was this proclivity towards one-upping the other that led me to confront a stray dog.

During the mid-90s there was an infestation of feral dogs that lived in the outskirts of my neighborhood. Since the residential area was still being developed and there were acres of mesquite tree brush and vegetable crops to hide in, the city’s wild dogs were attracted to the neighborhood like moths to a flame.

Occasionally a stray dog, searching for a drink of water, would cross paths with those of us who walked home from elementary school since a good portion of the journey followed alongside an irrigation ditch turned creek.

Every time we encountered a dog, OJ would tense up and stand perfectly still as if he were hiding from a T-Rex. I noticed OJ’s behavior and thought it odd since his family owned a trio of the most vicious Chihuahuas that were ever hatched. Instead of seeing a boy rightfully afraid of wild dogs, though, I saw an opportunity.

One afternoon as we walked home from school, a large dog wearing a bandana around his neck came bounding out of the brush with his tail wagging. While OJ froze on cue, I bent down and started slapping my hands on my knees — whistling for the dog to come on over.

Having gotten the mutt’s attention, I glanced over to see OJ’s reaction and was surprised to see he had disappeared. Since the dog was blocking the path to our houses, OJ had decided to escape a different way — he had climbed onto an irrigation pipe and was straddling it as if he were riding a horse.

I started laughing. What was there to be afraid of? It’s not like we were dealing with Cujo here — the dog was wearing a bandanna for crying out loud!

As I turned away from OJ to look back at the dog, my laughing suddenly stopped. Instead of the joyful grin of a puppy wanting to play, the dog’s mouth was fixed in a snarl as he approached. Less then a yard away, the dog started to bark at me as he ran at full pace. Being the chicken-hearted wuss I am, I immediately dropped my backpack next to OJ’s and ran over to the irrigation pipe. Soon, both OJ and I were sitting atop the pipe watching as the dog growled at us from the creek bank.

While McAllen is a dry city, the creek luckily had enough water to discourage the dog from leaving dry ground. Unluckily, the dog had the patience of a fisherman and planted himself on the dirt to wait for us.

OJ and I sat on the pipe for almost an hour while we waited for the dog to leave. As we sat, we started to talk. At first, our conversation dealt almost exclusively with what an idiot I was for antagonizing the pooch. Eventually, though, we got to talking about other stuff and discovered that we had more in common then just living in the same neighborhood. By the time the dog had gotten bored of waiting for us to come ashore and had walked off — OJ’s lunchsack in mouth —we were no longer bitter rivals. As evidenced by him pushing me off the pipe and into the water because I caused him to loose a lunchsack, we weren’t exactly friends yet either.

To be continued…

For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

Today's guest columnist: Amy

My sister Amy, for example, has been there my entire life to guide me through any problem I may be experiencing. With her scathing wit, freakishly large reservoir of trivial knowledge and her ability to empathize with most anybody, she has been a guiding resource in my life.

It’s no surprise, then, that I would want to read an advice column written by her. Unfortunately, Amy’s rather extensive criminal background as a horse rustler in the state of Montana prevents her from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit her responses for:

Dear Amy,

I am starting to get the impression that my cat does not respect me.

Every day I feed him his favorite food (lasagna), fill him in on all the humorous anecdotes that occur during my dates with his veterinarian and, most importantly, provide him with constant companionship.

Despite all of this, it seems the only things my cat has to offer me are pithy putdowns and a constant sarcastic smirk across his smug little furry face.

I’m getting sick and tired of being my pet’s personal jester. I’m a human being! I have a larger brain then that fleabag! I own him! Why, then, does he seem to think he’s so much better then me? Sure I have a tendency to get into wacky and zany misadventures that often end with me in some various form of pain. Is that any excuse, though, to loose my cat’s respect?

How can I reassert my dominance over my pet and show him that I am the alpha male of this relationship? I swear I’m one sarcastic eye roll from taking him to the vet for the final time.

— Unappreciated in Muncie

Dear Amy,

I’m starting to get the impression that my owner is suffering from severe depression.

I’m just a cat who loves lasagna but even I can spot the signs of severe clinical melancholy. Last week, I walked in on him with a gun in his mouth mumbling something about what a sad, lonely parody of a life he led. He then proceeded to stare listlessly at a picture of the farmhouse he grew up in as a child and mutter soft apologies to his brother, Doc Boy.

Even though I’m a cat who is physically incapable of conversing with humans, he insists on having conversations with me. I mean, I’m a cat! I can only respond with a purr and, quite frankly, it’s hard to muster a purr when your owner is acting like a complete spaz.

It’s not like he can chat with his girlfriend. Every woman he asks out has turned down the poor guy down — often in highly humorous and cartoonishly comic ways.

I’m really worried about the guy and when I get worried I have a tendency to overeat — even resorting to stealing the hamburger off of my owner’s plate; which, of course, makes him sad. It’s a vicious cycle and I need your help to break it.

How can I cheer my owner up — I’ve tried giving him sympathetic eye rolls but it doesn’t seem to be working.

— Worried in Muncie

Dear Worried in Muncie,

Are you really worried? Or are you some sick and twisted f**k who likes to toy with people? So all you can do is purr, I call “Bullshit!” How are you writing this letter? You may have everyone else convinced that you are a just the poor concerned pet of a depressed man, but I see through your cover. By the way, you are not the only purring companion available to your owner. Have you ever realized that you could be replaced? I hope for your benefit that there aren’t any other pets in the house. If there are, you should make sure that they are on your side. I suggest you seek some professional medical attention and start learning how to do some tricks. The next time he tries talking to you, you better do a really cool backflip or meow out, “I love you.” Otherwise you might be facing a life on the street where a big hairy Persian is tricking you out for a cheap price. Remember, you have a nice home and don’t want to lose it to any cuter kitten that happens to come along.

Good luck,

Amy

Dear Amy,

Me Odie. Me like ball. You throw ball? You throw ball, me like you. Lick.

— Me in Muncie

Dear Odie,

I like you because you are nice and simple. You are straight forward and know how to convey what you want. I suggest you bring a ball to anyone you see and wait for them to throw it. The fatter the person the better, think of yourself as their personal trainer. You are getting to play ball and they are getting a little execise too. I know that I probably lost your attention right after you heard your name so I will end with this:

Who’s a good boy? You are! Go get the ball. Good boy!

Amy

Amy is a lifelong proud resident of the state of Texas. When not picking on her little brother, she enjoys movies, live music concerts and beating everybody on Guitar Hero. She is currently working on her first comic strip based on the adventures of her chihuahua, Chula.