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.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Forget the South Beach diet: it's the London (broil) diet for me

This diet worked so well that my body practically disappeared!
Those folks across the pond have it down, that's for sure.

"Is London broil OK?" the deli guy asked my mom.

London broil, I can tell you, absolutely is ok.

I've been getting the pampered treatment lately, and boy, do I deserve it.

I've got about 25 staples in my back, another few in my armpit (I can't see them, so they remain uncounted) and a nasty limp as a leftover from an intravenous feed--phlebitis, apparently. All I know is that it hurts.

My neighbors probably all have been late for work this last week or so, as I haven't been up to the task of waking them all up. I've been so knocked out by surgery that I've barely said a word.
(A word to you dog owners: get all of those lumps and bumps checked. Some of them aren't just extra pudge. That was the case with me. )

Lest you fear for my welfare,  the doc at IVG in Natick thinks I'm going to be A-OK. I'll just make sure she insists on some roast beef in my regular diet from now on.

Here's the deal: all that extra protein must be working. Today, mom decided it was time for me to reenter society. When she actually said the entire word usually spoken as C-A-R, I practically knocked her over.

That's not hard to do, because she's still limping from the Boston Marathon. I mean, get over it already. I'm so over having matching limps.

Neighbors, throw out your alarm clocks. I"m back!
In case you were wondering about the origin of the term "London broil," this way of cooking and serving beef appears to have nothing at all to do with London. Apparently the method is an American invention and is not found in British cookbooks. Thank goodness I'm an American, not English, hound!

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Let sleeping dogs...

So I'm out on my usual walk, take my usual roll or two in the long grass—it feels really good on my back—and snatch the opportunity for a short nap.

Mom, who's been hobbling ever since the Boston Marathon, is exhausted at this point in the 3-mile loop. She plops down next to me, so of course I pop right up, if only to give her a little more exercise.

We trundle off toward home, when a neighbor drives by.

"Is your dog OK?" she asks Mom.


"He was lying down, and I wondered if he was sick or something," she said. "I thought he might need a ride home."

If anyone needed a ride home, it was Mom, I would have said, but I was already off, running like the wind. Too bad there's not a Boston Marathon for dogs.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Wellesley Strong!

Thought you heard sirens on Washington St. Sat. a.m.?
No, that was just me, singing away.
I showed up to add a little life to the Wellesley Strong photo shoot on Saturday morning. It was a gorgeous day, and I bayed up a storm just to keep things interesting.

I foresee a new career: making sure everyone's smiling at whatever event causes one to hire a photog. Preferably an outdoor event--earplugs might interfere with guests' fashion statements.
Thanks to Elaine Marten for organizing this opportunity to show our community support for our marathon runners! Thanks to Maura Wayman for laughing at my antics, not being startled off her ladder, and for her great photographs!

Make sure you're out on the course tomorrow, cheering on the runners in the rain! Unfortunately, I have an important sleeping engagement and will miss the race.

Grand opening at the Wellesley RDF

Just after Opening Day (not that Opening Day, silly, this is Swellesley) I showed up to browse the castoffs at the world-famous Take It or Leave It, where Mom has scooped up many a pricey object--last year's prize being a $500 leather satchel in primo condition.

We took a carload o'stuff, also in perfectly good shape, and then I sniffed around.

Lots of good smells, but otherwise I found little to interest me except for a couple of dog related items: a Scooby-Doo chia pet and a toy dachshund, who didn't look like he'd be all that fun to play with.

Thanks to the volunteer Friends of Recycling, everything was organized and shipshape.
Like the good citizen I am,
I left the chia pet for someone else to enjoy.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Day in the life: crashed a party, scared the Easter Bunny

Like my sister, who would choose only one egg of each color
and leave the rest to her friends, I shared this egg with a new pal, Drew.

On my way to have the usual at Petco Unleashed in Wellesley—the usual being a mouthful of free treats generously available at the counter—I noticed tons of small children, some toting Easter baskets, heading inside.

Too many were streaming in to have mistaken it for a birthday party at GlowGolf next door, but a bevy of small children doesn't intimidate me, so I trotted on in.

The Easter Bunny has a good startle reflex.
Petco's kind staffers bustled about, dropping plastic eggs in strategic locations. My ears perked up: my predecessor, Sparky, loved cracking those eggs to find the dog treats hidden inside. Maybe I could practice my skills.

But no. This egg hunt was for children only, I was told. So I left the eggs alone and pointed a cute little guy, Drew, toward the ones hidden in the tennis ball bin.

No one, however, restricted me from visiting the Easter Bunny. I was excited. I have a bunny brother at home, and the idea of meeting The Big Bun made my heart race.

I have to say, I was a bit disappointed. Though I was extremely well-behaved and patiently waited my turn (unlike a boorish black lab who shoved his way through the crowd and then snapped at me), E.B. seemed to find me, a dog in a dog store, rather unexpected. Not only did he have no treats for me, he seemed a bit—afraid? Afraid of being upstaged, perhaps.

I could have gone mano a mano with him, because he seemed ready, or insisted on being in all of the photos with the children, but instead did the gentlemanly thing: gave E.B. some space, and moved on.