Thursday, December 4, 2014
Well, I guess she did once, when I escaped and was trying to break into the SmartPak saddlery on Rte. 9 in Natick.
But I digress. I assume you want to know about the squirrel, not me.
A writer friend of mom's, upon arriving home this week, was startled to hear music wafting from her piano. A ghost? An intruder who just couldn't resist tickling the ivories as he or she lifted the family silver?
She calls 911. Walpole police arrive, and find—a squirrel.
Squirrel still at large. But how did he learn to play the piano? I sleep right next to ours, and the magic just hasn't happened for me.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
|I thoroughly inspected the Doug Flutie bobblehead for accuracy.|
Did he want to be present to watch the Eagles avenge last year's yucky loss to Syracuse?
Without a doubt.
Would he ever miss an Eagles game, in person or on the screen?
So this game celebrating the 30th year of the most famous play in football was one that, no doubt, would find Dad in section X, row 19, seat number one. Not only that, but season ticket holders who attended every home game would receive—drumroll—a Doug Flutie bobblehead!
Dad decamped early for Alumni Stadium, wearing the requisite maroon and gold. He eagerly opened the box containing the precious objet d'art,
I've seen that Hail Mary pass more times than I can count, and let me tell you, this bobblehead could use a serious makeover.
Poor #22 has been modeled as if he's in an adult league. There's not a trace of the fresh-faced twenty-something who made football history and picked up a Heisman, too. Crow's feet? Really? As a hound who's getting up there in dog years, I'm more than a little sensitive to ageism. Plus, it simply looks nothing like him.
Even #1 fan Dad had to agree that the sculptor missed his mark. After all, Dad's the one who recognized Flutie as he sprinted along Commonwealth Avenue in front of BC in this year's Boston Marathon. He's the one who once played basketball with the Flutester. He's the one who proudly wears his Flutie Flakes hat. Displays the Eagles flag. Plants the front walk in maroon and gold (no, that's Mom).
No matter. This Flutie representation will grace the family's mantel for each and every Eagles football game from now on. And thanks, Doug. Dad really loved watching you play.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Just a week ago Friday I was on the lam—and if you're wondering where this expression came from, you're in good company. Check this New York Times Magazine piece on the origin—but don't say I sent you.
Here's how it happened. Lately, I just hate to be left behind. Mom and Dad were planning an outing. I knew all the signs: Dad put on real shoes; Mom brushed her teeth.
I pulled my first trick: asking to go outside when I really didn't need to. I ran around, willy-nilly (there's another origin for you to guess; goes way back to 1608), easily eluding capture.
I was just warming up.
Dad managed to shoo me inside; I'm not sure how. Then it was time to move to Step 2 of my Evil Plan: push past Dad, evoking past Boston College great running back Andre Williams, and get into the garage. I dropped my shoulder and shoved.
Dad gave up on the garage, where I knew Mom was waiting in the getaway car. Except that no one was getting away without me.
So when Dad tried to get out the front door, I did a replay: dropped my shoulder, pushed past, and—out to freedom.
I jumped off my neighbor's garden wall to the ground—an eight-foot drop, but I'm a pro at that. I've always wanted to explore the steep hillside that runs down to Shore Road. Usually I'm in too much of a hurry, but with my parents hobbled by darkness, I had all the time in the world.
After I nosed around, I went over to the mulch business, then checked out the horse store on Rte. 9. Closed. Drat. So I hightailed it down Rte. 9 (staying on the sidewalk). I wasn't really paying attention to anything but the warm breeze and good scents.
When I looked up after stopping to sniff something really good, a dragnet of Mom in one car, Dad in another and some guys in their truck surrounded me. Before I knew it, I was in shackles.
|Like any good prisoner, I'm always looking for an out.|
Saturday, October 25, 2014
|Meet Seamus. Hangs out in Portsmouth NH|
except when he visits his Kennebunkport
grandma on the weekends.
Despite leaving me behind, and feeling horribly depressed about it, Mom and Dad reported having a fab weekend lounging on the Tides porch and walking on the beach. That's probably because they met that cute guy above, Seamus from Portsmouth, N.H. Not the Mitt Romney Seamus of NH, he of the dog-crate-atop-car style of travel. Not that it was the dog's fault.
This Seamus was incredibly well-behaved, compared to me, and suitably beloved, but he showed his true hound-ness when did a little gardening at the Tides. That afternoon, the gardeners had done a bunch of pruning. Not enough for Seamus. He took whole bites of butterfly bush and chomped them to pieces. Then, he serenaded the sun and sea worshipers with some soulful notes. Now, that's my kind of guy.
Meanwhile, over at Southboro Kennels, I was wooing a sweet little Catahoula leopard dog puppy. Really, she was too young for me, so I took on a more paternal role, becoming completely necessary as a puppy-sitter. I was so successful that when Mom came to pick me up, she was asked, "You're not taking Tucker from us, are you?"
I tried to stay, jumping in and out of the way-back several times, until those creative Southboro Kennels people figured out a way to keep me in. Not that they didn't want me to stay.
Believe me, I usually get a different reaction after a kennel stay. Like "we'll take your parents' money, but please don't come back" kind of thing. I know when I'm not wanted.
Anyway, I don't know what Nicky Hilton received for her birthday, but if it wasn't a hound, she sure is missing out.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
|If I had a dog park to run around in, my paws would be clean by the|
time I invade Dad's study.
So far, the group has identified a spot on West Central Street at the end of Middlesex Path, between Fisk Pond and Lake Cochituate, for the park.
Four paws up for FIDO. A dog park's been needed for a long time. Note to Wellesley canines and their humans: who wants to join me in finding a spot in our town?
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Sunday, September 21, 2014
|That curled lip: Brando taught me.|
Cesar Millan, if you are up to it, I, Tuckerby of Wellesley, challenge you to get me out of a car when I do not wish to.
Those of you who've known me my whole life, or at least that fantastic part that began when I moved to Swellesley to live almost literally in the lap of luxury, know that the initial challenge was far different.
That one had to do with going IN. It's one I still issue to my parents now and then, especially Mom, just to see if I can break her veneer of calm, or at least make her day. So that's pretty much every day that she dares cart me around.
For those uninitiated into my ways of stubborn (all the ways—one cannot count them), I only go IN when I am going OUT somewhere. For example, if I am home and bored, and Mom says, "Tucker, do you want to go?" there are two possible answers: one if by foot and one if by car. By foot: emphatically NO. By car, definitely YES. That's getting IN.
However, after a walk somewhere OUT of my immediate neighborhood (if I deign to get OUT, and I change that up, just to keep things interesting), I very rarely get back IN, unless directed by a stranger (when Mom does her Blanche du Bois helpless routine, and yes, she is practically crazed by that time).
Anyway, back to getting OUT. If it's raining, or threatening to rain, or if I have heard a single drop fall on my roof, and my parents take me in the C-A-R out of sheer desperation, it is very likely that upon returning home, I will do one of two things: take advantage of the open garage door and run away, or two, remain in the way back of the vehicle.
Tonight, I chose option 2. Mom first thought the aroma of newly acquired Chinese food would do the trick, but it's not Paleo enough for me. Then she tried these new treats that I'm wild about. I didn't even look up.
She called Dad for backup. He plops some steak into my bowl. From the wayback of the car, cozily housed in the garage, I can hear it ping. I prick up my ears, but no movement is otherwise discerned. He brings my bowl, with a few pieces of steak in it, into the garage. Mom holds the bowl under my nose.
I will confess that, here, I very slightly start to salivate. But that's all. Really, I require at least a half-pound, maybe more, if I'm going to lose my dignity. If asked, my terms would be more like Fruit-of-the-Month but on a more frequent basis: some form of steak, cooked to perfection, served right to my door—the garage door, that is.
Finally, Dad has had enough, and besides, the Chinese food is getting cold. In a very Cesar-like manner, he leads my reluctant self out of the car and into the house. I give up, but I make sure that bowl got refilled. Besides, it stopped raining.
Cesar, the challenge is on: dare you take it?