A lot of the folks are worried about the coyotes around here and the safety of their pets. They ought to be more concerned about the cougars and the safety of their young boys. I’m not talking about the feline type, though these can be pretty catty themselves. I’m talking about the new phenomenon of older women preying on younger men. The cougars I’m talking about also have fangs and claws, some even have cute little tails, but I tell you what: these are no dumb animals. These cats don’t eat their young; they will eat yours’ though.

When older men chase young stuff, they are usually labeled perverts. Women do the same thing and are called, "Cougars?" How quaint; I could think up better names but in the name of, "I don’t want to get the emails," I won’t. They don’t even have the decency to lie like men do and call their date their, "Nephew," or some other socially acceptable euphemism. No, nowadays they practically shout out, "Boy-toy," and wave that Cougar banner high.

Where were these women when I was 24? Of course, when I was in my twenties, I wasn’t attracted to women in their forties. Heck I’m in my fifties and I’m not attracted to them now. (uh oh, here come the emails.)

I know women look younger these days, what with Botox, facelifts, tummy-tucks and breast implants along with yoga, Pilates, Tai-bo and ecstasy but come on. What ever happened to dating within your decade?

I recently spent a weekend out of town with The Wife, and a forty-something, single white female friend who is known to date younger guys, (Cougar,) and her new Boy-toy. I joked with her about carding this guy on the way to picking him up but upon meeting him, I wondered if he even had a driver’s license to check. After numerous high-fives and countless, "Dudes," we began our journey to a weekend in Cougar Country.

After settling into our vacation condo, or as I later dubbed it, "The Love Shack," I watched this young stud-a-muffin chug out of a bottle of Vodka, then chug from a bottle of cranberry juice repeatedly. I instantly felt sorry for the kid. No one had ever taught the child you can pour both into a glass together, maybe throw in an ice cube or two and call it a cocktail. I know conversation certainly isn’t what attracted these two together. I mean, come on, how many times can you high five a guy and hear, "Dude," in one evening without smacking somebody, or at least grounding him for the weekend. I once dated a younger girl and we had absolutely nothing to talk about: it was awesome, but enough about me.

When we headed out for the evening, the Cougaress paraded her young cub around, waving that, "Cougar Banner," high as they smooched and cuddled all over town. How embarrassing: I mean, come on, I’m a married man. I thought I gave up smooching and cuddling when I said, "I do." Now I felt obligated to kiss and cuddle The Wife all night long; I sure wasn’t going to let Opie show me up. They were acting like teenagers in love and I swear they would have had sex in my car if I would have let them. Heck, I’d like to have sex in my car too if somebody would let me but I guess I also gave that up when I said, "I do."

I used to kid The Wife that when she turned 40, I would trade her in for two twenties. It was a joke Babes; there’s no way I could handle two of you. She’s about to turn Fifty and is tired of me telling everyone I’ve never thought I would sleep with a fifty year old woman. It must be tough being married to me.

Back to Cougar Country: the Beav passed out about halfway through the evening at a club I picked especially for him. No, they weren’t playing Barney or Blues Clues, but you are on the right track. I didn’t really want to leave but we had to get the youngun to bed. Maybe, if he had tried that cocktail idea of mine he wouldn’t have passed out so early. Anyway, we got back to the condo and I was feeling mighty smug about outlasting Gilligan for the evening. Of course, I didn’t get laid either, but that had more to do with saying, "I do," than with age or passing out.

The Wife and I cooked breakfast the next morning because, that’s what the adults do. The young stud was a tad bit hung-over, but after downing his 10:00 A.M. beer he was good to go. We journeyed back into town to see the sights. It’s always fun to show kids things for their first time like sit-down restaurants with waiters, stores that don’t end in, "Mart," and cocktails in a glass. We had a nice day in town. I think I only was high-fived seventeen times that day. The rest of the weekend went fine, and I now hopefully have a new friend. I don’t remember his name, but he seems to think mine is, "Dude," anyway, so it’s no big deal.

Upon returning home though, I found I have another dilemma. A good buddy is newly single and requiring my services as wingman. Poor guy doesn’t have a chance. Not that I’m a bad wingman but he is in his forties: way too old for Cougar Country. As for the young stuff: we’ve been to some clubs with cute, sweet, nubile young creatures, but when they walk by and say, "Excuse me sir," that’s not a good sign. I’ve told him to wear a ball cap backwards, apply fake tattoos and pull his pants down around his ass but, just like The Wife, he won’t listen to me. Besides, he would just look like a tattooed Elmer Fudd, coming by to fix your toilet anyway.

Luckily I don’t have these problems because for one, I’m married, and for two, I already have a younger chick. Of course, as my buddy would say, once you’re my age, they’re all younger chicks. I try to be a loyal wingman, he makes jokes. Maybe if he’d listen to me, start high-fiving and calling everybody, "Dude," he might have a shot. In the meantime, I’m sure glad I said, "I do."