Call him Mr. October

OK, SO I GO TO

take the last chocolate chip cookie and the toddler reaches for it, so I give him the cookie. He threatens to break me off a piece but I decline, after which he decides he doesn’t really want the cookie after all and attempts to slam-dunk it into the trash.

Only, he misses the slam-dunk -- Loser! -- and one of the dogs winds up with the chocolate chip cookie in its mouth. Of course dogs aren’t supposed to have chocolate, it’s bad for their creamy complexions, so I grab it from the cocker spaniel and he freezes, he won’t let go, you know dogs.

“Look at me,” I tell him, “GIMME THE COOKIE!”

Which he does. I find this tactic works better with dogs than with children. Dogs are smarter and have a stronger desire not to disappoint you.

“Thanks,” I say when he releases it. The toddler starts to wipe his chocolated hand on my pants leg, and I counter by snaring his wrists in a jujitsu move I learned in the seventh grade and swing him to the sink.

“What’s going on in here?” his mother asks.

“Nothin’,” I say.

“Daddy funny,” the toddler says, giving me all the credit when most of it really belongs to him.

And that’s how our day starts. Not bad, as days with a 3-year-old go. Sometimes I feel as if I’m raising a litter of wolves.

But it’s a good time of year, all the same. On cool mornings, a coffee mug is soothing against the hand, and there are so many great ballgames on the tube -- games of substance and worth -- that you wish that you had a wall of TVs, like a security guard does.

“TOUCHDOWN!” yells the toddler. Or maybe that was me.

There is much yelling lately. It is as if we all have sports Tourette’s. It happens this way: Everything will be kind of quiet. You’ll hear the dog licking himself or the toilet running and running (bad fill valve, probably).

Then, out of nowhere, someone will scream “OH! WHAT A CATCH!” or “HE WAS SAFE, YOU IDIOT!” For a few minutes it will be quiet again. But not for very long.

“You’re scaring the dogs,” my wife says, when sports Tourette’s is especially bad.

“Sorry.”

“And I think you’re killing the plants,” she says.

Honestly, I don’t care that the little clump of clover she keeps on the kitchen window sill is dying, because it obviously hasn’t brought us much luck anyway, though it’s nice to drop a sprig or two into a cocktail now and then, just for the heck of it. But you could do the same with, say, mint.

When I explain this to her, she reacts with that blank look, as if a window shade has closed across her face.

“Are you ever serious?” she asks.

“I’m always serious,” I explain.

“Why is everything a joke with you?”

You’ve seen those studies, the ones in which women say a sense of humor is the most important trait in a man. Well, they’re all lying. By the time they’re 40, all women want Donald Trump.

But I keep punch-lining away anyhow -- what else do I have to offer? -- and declare the rest of the day High Pants Day, a time when everyone in the house is required to wear their pants cinched up as high as humanly possible. It’s a handsome look, especially in sweatpants. Go ahead, try it. It feels good around the navel, which I’m pretty certain is the male G spot.

“Is it really High Pants Day?” the little girl asks excitedly, stumbling from her room.

“Soon Hallmark will be making cards,” I explain.

“They will?” asks the boy.

Well, nothing’s official yet. But it is October, and I think we should celebrate in as many ways as possible. By screaming at ballgames and taking a few fashion risks. Hey, there are only so many Octobers in life. And this may well be my last one. The way my marriage is going lately, she could at any time garrote me while I sleep.

Till then, we’ll celebrate October as thoroughly as we can. This weekend, for example, I think we’ll celebrate with a big steaming pot of duck soup.

“Duck soup?” says the boy.

“Yum!” says the toddler.

“How do you make duck soup?” asks the little girl.

“First you grab a duck,” I explain.

“Any duck?” asks the boy.

“A high-waisted duck,” I say.

“Yum!” the toddler says again.

Yep, I’m making a nice duck soup, just like Groucho used to make. Six quarts of water, five potatoes, two carrots and one high-waisted duck. Simmer. Stir. Cheer.

Seriously.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com, or at myspace.com/chris erskine.