Friday, January 1, 2016

Wellesley's Sleepwalker to walk the High Line in prime time

Giving Sleepwalker's dog a comforting nuzzle after he was
defaced with yellow paint on the Wellesley campus.
Tony Matelli's Sleepwalker statue, having by turns terrified, annoyed and offended Wellesley sensibilities (not mine, though--I was more interested in his canine corollary), will now stride unblinkingly up on NYC's High Line, according to the New York Times.

Readers no doubt will remember that I was one of the few unperturbed by the ghostly white, lumpy, underdressed, balding human posing in mid-step on the Wellesley College campus. I barely gave him a sniff, and the encounter went unrecorded, in the photographic sense.

Look for Sleepwalker beginning in April, when the cherry blossoms might or might not come out again. No word on whether his little dog--last seen on the Upper West Side--will accompany him.

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Daisy does the polar bear plunge

Daisy takes the plunge.

The fish didn't mind having a friend in, and neither did I.
In advance of the traditional New Year's Day polar bear plunge, and fortunately just in advance of today's icy snow glop that forced me to wear my winter coat, one of my less well-behaved, but nevertheless welcome, visitors took a dip in my pond.

My personal pond, that is, not the local body of water known as Morses. This pond, while it is home to fish, frogs and the occasional turtle, is more of a watering hole for me, and this visitor--Daisy is her name--rightly treated it as such. In fact, she was so thirsty after racing around my garden that she waded in farther and farther, lapping as she went, until she was up to her neck in water and pond fish. Fortunately, they did not mind.

I was thrilled to have a playdate with Daisy, who is one of the many pups--albeit a very special one-- brought up North by Greg Mahle, the subject of local author Peter Zheutlin's book Rescue Road. I'm from the South, too, so I knew we would get along just fine.

Besides the fun, one of the best things about having Daisy over was that she made me look good. Really good. Her mom has trained champions. Dogs who understand French. Dogs who can actually dance to actual music. I can barely speak English, and I'm better at dressage than dancing.

Turns out, all I had to do to look good was to sit. I rarely sit, but I did for her. In return, I chomped down bits of string cheese. Daisy? She mostly raced about, heedless.

I'm no Christmas angel, as Mom would attest. So I will confess that I mostly sat. The rest of the time, I was inclined to knock Daisy's mom over. Given that she does not weigh much more than I do, it would have been a cinch, but I decided it wasn't worth the repercussions. If she had blue cheese, well, that would have been another story. As I'm already packing on the holiday pounds, it's something I could go for in the new year. Better than an ice cold plunge any day.

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Did Jesus even drink coffee?

Ever hear the one about how Jesus went
into a Starbucks and ordered
 a double frappe macchiato?
Did snowflakes ever fall in Bethlehem? Did anyone hang ornaments on the manger?

I mean, we might as well get authentic about I asked history professor dad the obvious question: might Jesus have drunk coffee?

"My guess would," concluded he. Perhaps, he mused, somewhere in the Bible it mentions Jesus' dietary habits?

In the absence of such data, I say, look at someone's coffee cup collection, and you can learn volumes about them--not anything of biblical proportions, but certainly plenty.

Mine, for example, includes souvenirs from the Rivers Music School; Boston College; that Jersey Shore institution, Ron Jon's; the Volvo place; Rensselaer, alma mater of my sister; and a red-banded cup from the Wellesley Education Foundation's spelling bee.

Nothing religious about them, unless you consider Dad's fanaticism about the Boston College Eagles football team, which could use a bit of prayer right now.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

Arrrrgh! Raking up some booty in Wellesley Square

Testing my sea legs--and some fine Halloween treats.
Missed The Dogist Halloween photo shoot --and my chance at fame -- at Wellesley Books in the Square today, all because Mom and Dad were watching former Raider John Fadule give the Boston College Eagles football team more forward mo than they've had all season.

So I hoisted sail and tacked on over after the game, hoping for some booty. Like any seasoned pirate, I found it, of course.   First, at the bookstore, my customary treat and a photo of me in my seagoing gear. Apparently, my landlubber parents still consider me a scalawag, although a pirate has a bit more leeway in life than the prisoner I was doomed to role-play after my all-too-short-lived escape last year.

So, I sailed northward to Petco Unleashed, where I found me another pirate dog, and he was none too pleased to have a rival. It was all "arrgh!" this and "arrgh!" that, which was totally unnecessary as I outweighed him by more than a few stone, and could have tossed him into the deep without getting any sea spray on my pantaloons.

But I was patient, gave him a wide berth, and soon he shoved off, sensing that my said patience was wearing thin. So quickly, indeed, that he be forgetting his treasure. Not me. Oh, no, matey.
I made off with a big bag o'Halloween treats, and didn't have to play a single trick. Ahoy there, and Happy Halloween!

Friday, October 23, 2015

You can have it all: Wellesley AND Portofino!

The Wellesley at anchor in Portofino.
Ever since Mom got back from her way-too-long summer stay on the Italian Riviera, that's all she can talk about: Portofino, Portofino, Portofino.

It's driving me more than a little pazzo, if you get my Italian.

Well, I've done some research, and it turns out she really can have it all. It just so happens that there is a yacht named Wellesley. The Wellesley, in fact. Not only is it a sweet little number at 100-plus feet long, it docks in that snug little harbor, possibly the most beautiful place on earth and, by the way, home to both Dolce and Gabbana. And if you have to ask who they are, well...then maybe Portofino is not the place for you.

Missed Dolce & Gabbana's
Alta Moda show in Portofino this summer?
Too bad for you.
Winter rates on The Wellesley start at upwards $60,000--per week. She has a full-time crew of five (they have a separate, entrance to their below-decks quarters), and her myriad of staterooms and en-suite baths can handle a dozen guests, who can lounge in the Jacuzzi, sun on the deck, be lowered on the hydraulic platform to go for a swim, or play with the yacht's "toys"--inflatable stand-up paddleboards and waterski equipment.

But what else would you expect when you have the best of both worlds? Just don't forget your Alta Moda wardrobe. D&G will be expecting you.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

HGTV/DIY/Houzz mania leaves me sleepless

Next project: Turf in the family room?
Not so slowly, but surely, I'm being HGTV'd and DIY'd and Houzzed out of room after room after room. Mom doesn't even watch TV, but somehow she's decided that all of my favorite sleeping places needed some freshening. So every room's been getting the makeover, and where does that leave me?

Let me count the insults:
  1. Barricaded out of last winter's project, the living room. I've been sneaking in there whenever I get the chance, and now there's a pretty effective barricade of baby gates threaded together with bungee cords. Very DIY. Not very HGTV. Definitely not Houzz-worthy, which featured a nifty pull-out drawer with a dog bed in the laundry room.
  2. Permitted only in my sleeping closet in my sister's bedroom (last summer's project). Mom sewed up a storm, refinished a headboard, and bought plenty of white linens. The meaning was clear: no dirty hounds allowed. What hound isn't dirty, I ask? Guess that's what the laundry room dog bed is for.
  3. Unceremoniously and literally dumped from the mattress in what I've always considered to be my very own room, but which needs to become a guest room in a couple of weeks. Mom's decided our guests are too fancy for a simple double bed; they're getting the queen treatment. I'm the king, I protested, but that argument went nowhere.
I don't know how she plans to keep me out of there, but even if she succeeds, I know there's always one place I can sleep: on my parents' bed.