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.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

Retired postal worker still a favorite

B.T. —always a reliable source for sustenance.
B.T. wasn't even our letter carrier--just drove one of the trucks that was on my walking route--which covers a bunch of neighborhoods. Whenever I heard his truck, I came running, much to the chagrin of my folks, who aren't fond of strained arm muscles and skinned knees.

B.T. retired sometime in early summer, and while I perked up my considerable ears every time I heard his truck, he, his friendly greeting—"Tucker, where've you been? Sleeping?"— and his treats, were not there. I gave up.

Now, I've never been interested in any other mail truck. I walk all over the place, and ignore any mail carrier--unlike my neighbor Charlie, who can't wait to get a piece of one. It's a good thing that the mailboxes are clustered in our neighborhood, rather than in front of our houses, otherwise poor Charlie would probably have a heart attack.

So I was out walking yesterday, when suddenly, I heard it: B.T.'s truck! I zoomed over, only to find—no B.T. Savvy Mom asks, in between gasps of much-needed oxygen, "Was this B.T.'s truck?" Indeed it was. "They're all the same," says the postal worker, clearly not impressed. But no. They are not all the same. B.T.'s truck had a special sound. And B.T. was special. I miss him.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

La dolce vita for hounds: Italy

Dogs have a special place in the heart of Italians—especially hounds.

From the mountains in the north to the Italian Riviera to the groves of Tuscany, the country teems with teeny Italian greyhounds and spunky daschunds. At least, that's what Mom tells me, because somehow, she left me behind when she and the famiglia went to the old country.

Anyway, she took some pix of the bigger varieties just to give me the idea of what I might have encountered had I had my own passport:

Rocking a nap outside the Duomo in Firenze.

Checking for traffic on a Venice canal near Mom's favorite
place for cichetti and spritz.

I cani guarding a villa in the village of Bedonia in the mountains.

Friday, June 26, 2015

The Divine Miss M and I: she loves me (and I confess I feel the same)!

Feeling a bit lovesick now that the
Divine Miss M has returned to her home state.
Everywhere, it seems, there are babies. Out the window, the cardinal babies cry for food. So do the downy woodpecker babies, the oriole baby (just one so far), the starling babies, the sparrow babies. You get the idea. We've also got baby chipmunks (grr!) and baby squirrels.

So it wasn't surprising when a human baby showed up. This one, a 10-month-old I'm calling the Divine Miss M because she certainly comported herself like an angel, became an inside pet for a day or so. A stay too brief, it turns out. Anyway, every time I came near, she shrieked, just beside herself with delight.

That is not the usual reaction humans have to me. I mean, I get lots of compliments on my size, handsome appearance, and voice. But delighted shrieking? Atypical.

So of course I fell in love with her, immediately, and she with me.

Her behavior since meeting me, her mother reports, has been a bit over the top. She's taken an interest in the stuffed puppy she formerly ignored, resorted to stealing another's and absconding with same, and scopes out each dog she comes across, I assume in a desperate search for me.

My behavior? Without Miss M, I've been feeling a bit low. Being adored is pretty nice. So today, make sure you tell someone you love them.