Swell stuff—all weekend long

I make waves wherever I go: in this case, Lake Waban.

"It's the blogging dog!" one of my fans cried out as she spotted me trotting along the path around Lake Waban. Indeed. With her was the fetching Tessa, a black, silky-haired pup. Our meet-and-greet was one of the highlights of my day.

It's those kinds of community-building encounters that get me up and going every morning, and this weekend a whole bowlful of them are planned for our little swell town.

Speaking of swell, kudos to the best news source in town, The Swellesley Report. Always inventive, fun and informative, TSR also has the good sense to feature me every once in a while, and for that I am grateful. My handsomeness decorated a TSR story about the top dog names in Wellesley—mine is one of them, of course, but TSR lists all of the names. Literary Mom would like to meet Mr. Bingley and especially Mr. Darcy; Dad, who once wrote an article about a sea captain, might like to meet Ahab, or perhaps Clio, the muse of history, and definitely Lincoln; my music- and theater-loving sister, Cordelia or perhaps Cyrano, and definitely Wolfgang.

You can collect lots more dog names, and meet them, too,  at Wellesley's Wonderful Weekend, especially at the dog contest, from 10-11:30 a.m. Saturday at the field in front of the Warren Building on Rte. 16. I'll try to make it, but first I must head to Lake Waban, to meet my public. They're expecting me.

Cloudy over Madagascar? It's thunderstorm season for sure

I'll take a nice, dry dirt pile over a thunderstorm any day.

My former neighbor, the lovely Beamish, was an amazing predictor of the weather. She'd go in hiding, preparatory to a thunderstorm, if it was cloudy over, say, Madagascar.

Same here. So last week, I was heading out to Lilja field when I heard the unmistakable rumble of thunder.

Dad, whose auditory system is nowhere near as fine-tuned as mine, or even most humans, detected not a thing. So I closed my ears, lowered my tail, and turned around—a good walk shortened.

Needless to say, I've been crouching in my man cave for the last couple of nights. With more thunderstorms predicted for tomorrow a.m., it looks like it might be home, sweet home for the foreseeable future—unless that storm heads offshore. Antarctica should be far enough, and then I can go back to soaking up the sun from my dirt pile.

Getting bent out of shape, literally

Perhaps I have been concussed. Perhaps I have just been lazy. In any case, I've been away from my computer for far too long, enjoying this long stretch of sunshine and the pleasures of chasing chipmunks.

Question: have you ever bonked your way into a screen door? If not, I am here to attest that it really, really makes your body hurt. One feels like one's nose (that's the part that hit first) has permanently been patterned, sort of like an alligator skin handbag, only less desirably so.

You've already read about my penchant for, upon Mom's arrival, grabbing a boot and running outside with it at the first opportunity in the hopes that she will chase me and learn to play my game. So you'll understand two things: first, that the garden often has abandoned boots lying around, just right for toads to rest in, and second, that my velocity is rather unstoppable.

If velocity can be measured in units that express displacement over time, perhaps this photograph will show the results of  said displacement, which occurred when, having grabbed the boot, I sped my way straight through that screen door, which displaced itself smack onto the patio with a hound-size hole in it and a frame bent by a good kick of that boot.

It turned out to be the first day, and the last, that Dad slid the screen door into action.

Giving winter the boot

I keep trying to give winter the hint that it's long past time to be over, but that darn cold wind keeps coming back.

My favorite thing to do when Mom gets home is to dash into the back hall, grab a boot and do some more dashing, this time out the back door. Then it's Mom's turn to dash over, grab the boot in her teeth and take her turn around the yard. Somehow, she never remembers how to play that part of the game. The boots get left outside, and then she complains that I never pick up my toys.

Tip: if your mom has the down-filled North Face boots,  shake them really hard. It's fun to play in the feathers. Kind of like snow, but warmer.

Boston Marathon sadness

For once, I'll skip the usual self-aggrandizing comments. Instead, I'll just express my gratefulness that Mom and Dad both are physically OK. And sadness, plenty of deep sadness for those who are not and for our wonderful but wounded city.

Marathons, Boston and otherwise

Are you tiny enough to fit in here? My sister is--in fact, she's actually inside!

While Mom is still hoping to pull off her first Boston Marathon after two years of training (and, I might add, ignoring her adorable hound dog while she pounds out the miles) my sister is off on a marathon of her own.

The Shell Eco Marathon 2013 has brought together 151 teams from North and South America to Houston for three days of racing alternative energy vehicles put together by high school and college students. My sister's team, from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, NY, crated two cars. My sister is driving one of the cars and helped build the other. She was chosen as driver, not for her navigation skills, I am sure, but for her small size. That's her, unidentifiable in that tiny capsule above.

Proving that moms can pick out their children from a sea of like teens in hundreds of photos, that's my sister in the red fireproof suit, in front of the two RPI cars (also in the school color).

Gathering for the opening ceremony in Houston. My sister's
in the racing suit. Look out, Danica Patrick!

 The goal of this marathon, perhaps like Mom's goal in the Boston race, is not to be the fastest, but to use the least amount of fuel. Last year's winning team toted up more than 2,000 mpg. Of course, if RPI had me hitched up to that tiny capsule, they'd win on all counts: least fuel, fastest time. For efficiency, there's nothing like a hound dog. Just give him a good long nap afterwards.

TuckerMan avalanche!

Showing Mom how to do a little Downward Dog.

Like an avalanche, I descended unexpectedly and with great force upon Southboro Kennels last weekend. For once, it wasn't my fault.

This human-triggered avalanche was caused by Dad, aka the absent-minded professor (literally). Mom was off with her pals at the Whispering Pines Writers' Retreat, soaking up lessons about paths to publication, gorging on delicious treats and toasting marshmallows at a pondside bonfire.

Dad was off hiking into avalanche terrain at Tuckerman Ravine on Mount Washington. (Let's not discuss the wisdom of this particular folly, at least not right now. But if you'd like to learn about Saturday's harrowing conditions, which included the advisory "very dangerous avalanche conditions exist; travel in avalanche terrain is not recommended" you may click here. )

Rather than allow me to continue my lounging life at home, Mom arranged for me to be boarded nearby, one night only, at Natick Animal Clinic. Organized as she is, she made the reservation, left detailed instructions for Dad and headed off to the Middle of Nowhere, Rhode Island.

Apparently, her instructions were not detailed enough. Dad brought me instead to my fav place, Southboro Kennels, which was fine with me, except somehow they had no record of my reservation. Because, of course, no such reservation had been made.

Being that I am beloved at Southboro (you might remember I am not received in this gracious manner at every pet hotel), dear Mary found a spot for me. And not just for one night, for two, because Mom couldn't haul it all the way out to Southboro in time to pick me up.

"Don't worry: we'll take care of the Tuck Man," Mary assured Mom, who frantically called from her cabin, through the miracle of cell service.

Thank goodness for my friends at Southboro. I really liked the pampering I received. We all, then, had an eventful weekend. Although Dad was feeling a little bruised from his error, as well as the extreme conditions through which he put his body, no one was injured. That's a good thing.