Friday, March 12, 2010

I'm melting! Or, how raindrops keep falling on my head

Well, if it weren't for my friend Lesley, I probably wouldn't be here today to record the horrors of yesterday's rainstorm. Unlike my aunt's Camelotish town of Duxbury, it actually rains here in Swellesley, and in this case, it happened to rain upon me. Fortunately, Lesley was tooling down Weston Road and happened to have a Raider Red umbrella in her car. She bravely proffered it across the well-traveled street, but I was disinclined to risk further raindrops or being hit by one of those vehicles that blithely, and dryly, pass us poor hounds as we suffer. Lesley, I can attest, is courageous, thorough and kindly. She turned around and made yet another offer of shelter. This time, Mom took it, knowing I was about to melt into the pavement, or at least drag her to a nearby stranger's porch, from which it would be not only embarrassing but impossible to extricate ourselves. At least until it stopped raining.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

A little extra for the IRS

It's tax time, and my friend Oliver has expressed his issues with the IRS in a nonviolent, yet effective, way. I'm not sure what Oliver's issues are, he being a cat. However, his feelings are clear: his folks had left out an array of documents, waiting to be sorted and accounted for, and Oliver, perhaps a bit queasy from all of the numbers, left some scat on that.

His parents, far from being scandalized, appreciated the irony.

Now, I would never—besides, my folks have, very fortunately, an accomplished accountant in the family, so they do not sully their brains with such minutiae.

More on Oliver. Perhaps I stretch the truth when I say we are friends. In fact, during my last visit on Oliver's porch, I was impressed not so much by this gargantuan specimen supposedly of the smaller feline species, but by an art project, namely, a feathered doorstop attempting to be an owl. Well, for all I knew, it was an owl, and by the time I was through baying at it (my incessant howls ceased only upon forcible removal from the area) it was clear that I was not a candidate for residency in that esteemed section of Swellesley.

Oliver himself was the subject of a recent letter from his mom, upon the occasion of a visit to the vet:

He weighed in at 17.5 lbs. which is a lot lighter than I thought he was.  The vet said he was not fat, just a little heavier than average. 

Now that's a vet with a great attitude!

He is just a big cat. I don't think I have ever seen a bigger one other than a Maine coon cat," she said. I think he must have some Maine coon cat in him. The vet wouldn't let me leave the office without a carrying case so I had to buy one for him. Well, Oliver LOVES it. He sleeps in it all the time. The vet said he was a very cool cat and he could come visit any time. 

Unless, of course, it's tax time.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Signs of spring

With the advent of spring comes the yearning for a new silhouette. My family keeps checking, tilting their heads: I think he's lost a bit, don't you?

Ounces, they mean, not lbs.

Since hitting the big 9-0, certain things are taboo:
Weekly Sunday a.m. waffle
Gleanings from the taco pan
Pot full o'meatballs
Extra pancakes
Peanut butter bones
Actually, I think I am a bit trimmer. Instead of two and a half hours of walks per day, more daylight means three plus hours. More playtimes. More romping.

While we're on the topic, what is it with those scales at the vet? I mean, you take in a breath, and two lbs. get added to your total. What's with that? Next time, I'm getting a mani and pedi ahead of time. Every ounce counts. Then, I'm exhaling the moment I step on that awful metal thing, pausing briefly, and I'm out of there. Ever notice, the longer you stay on, the more lbs it adds? It's crazy.

BTW, even though you know I love Dr. Schettino, the carrot thing did not go over big.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Remembrance of dogs past

There's a sweet op-ed piece acknowledging the pain of losing a pup and the connection between the new dog and the old in the Boston Globe today ("The Secret Messages on the Dog Bed" by Elissa Ely).

Having never lived in a home (my manners were atrocious, unless you think that standing on tables and knocking lamps over is OK—what did I know?) before I settled in here in ol' Swellesley, I gave Sparky some space. First I slept in my crate. Then I graduated to the guest room. Now, I start off in the guest room, or my crate if I'm scared, then around midnight head to Sparky's old chair in my folks' room.

Let's face it: I'm really too big to fit in there properly, although it's amazing how tiny I can make myself. But Sparky liked it, and my folks are used to having a dog there. It's cozy, worn, and I can check on my parents. As for secret messages, I think it's more like telepathy. We couldn't be more different, but we have lots in common.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

This hound's from the pound

Fave new read: Dogs by Emily Gravett. Found it yesterday at Wellesley Booksmith where I snagged three treats. Clearly, Barry was not on duty to limit my consumption.
    At first glance the cover pup looks like a basset hound, and I jealously thought, what is it with the fascination with these ill-proportioned hot dogs? Any time a hound is suggested in a children’s book, it’s always a basset. (see, for example, The Hound from the Pound; Lunchbox and the Aliens, and a  forthcoming Clive Cussler story that I’ll pass on. Sleep, Little One Sleep by Marion Dane Bauer, unfortunately out of print, has the cutest cover painting of a basset ever.)
    So groan, groan, even though one of my favorite pals, Padi, is an honorable member of the breed. Her mom is children’s author Barbara Barbieri McGrath, famous for her M&M-brand counting books. My mom’s non-candy favorite is The Little Green Witch, based on ye olde tale of the little red hen. Mom identifies a little too closely with that one. (BTW, tried snagging an M&M’s laced cookie last night—not bad, except that it was followed by Mom’s fingers down my throat.)
    Everyone says that Padi and I look alike, and we do—except that my legs are about two feet longer than hers. She’s a good sport, even dressing up like an actual hot dog on Halloween and baying at her parents' display of a big stuffed basset stuck in an enormous web that would intimidate even hard-working Charlotte. Check out Padi's pix on Barbara's home page.
    Anyway,  I noticed there was something very feathery about the cover dog’s ears, so I opened up the wraparound cover to learn this hound is an amalgam of sorts—not at all a purebred, but that’s OK. A basset is depicted inside, and so is a very nice-looking Dalmatian—tail a bit too long in the leaping scene, but great Sparkyish spots—and, wonder of wonders, an actual foxhound! Not truly wondrous, because Emily Gravett lives in England, where there are tons of my shorter-legged and –eared brethren. Also, she knows her foxhounds: I’m on the page of dogs that don’t bark.
    So there.
    Checking out the inside of the UK edition on, I noticed that the language of one spread was changed for the U.S. market from “stroppy” (scary bulldog) and “soppy” (puffball). Good move. Good book!

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Unplugging: it's healthy!

Ever want your folks to stop working on the computer? Sparky had a great technique: first, he'd stick his nose under the keyboardists' right arm, giving it a gentle upwards bump. He'd leave it alone for a few minutes, then come back and re-bump, this time a little more forcefully. Then, when he was thoroughly annoyed and past ready to go for a walk, he'd bonk the arm so hard it would fly off the keyboard, and continue this behavior until the typist relented out of the sheer impossibility of doing any more work, got out the leash and went for a good long walk.

This gentle yet effective escalation is too subtle for me, the redneck hound. Here's my technique: without any warning at all, I spring from the doorway and launch myself, missile-like, at the typist. Sometimes this results in the typist and chair being knocked over. It sometimes results in bruises on said beloved typist. It always, however, results in me going for a walk. Of course, not if it's raining. But that's my call, too.

It's a bit like my sister's technique of screaming, "Mommy, stop working!" while Mom, on the phone, was trying to work from home. Brutal, yet so effective.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

The nose-bump: a sign of affection

Nose-bumped my sister awake this a.m. to welcome her home. She didn't mind, having missed me terribly during her college sojourn. Wonder if admissions would consider my application? Then again, I'm probably overqualified, being so scholarly.

The nose-bump, in case, Dear Reader, you are not familiar with this move, is a form of greeting that is at once enthusiastic, loving, and, shall we say, in your face. It works like this: home in on your beloved's face from a distance of about two feet, quickly, steadily and without any loss of momentum, until you bonk it directly nose-to-nose, leaving the bestowed-upon bumper slightly dazed, face moist, and unbearably happy.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Blue skies, baying, and bluebirds

Felt slightly Thoreauvian this a.m. during my constitutional around Lake Waban. The chickadees were cee-dee-deeing and fee-baying, the cardinals were whistling and adding a red jolt of color to match the fire hydrants on the Wellesley campus. The pond, snowy, is beginning to open up on the edges, yet the ice fisherman persist. The part that reminded me of Thoreau was the rumble of the train in the near distance, much like the train that disturbed Henry at Walden Pond. It all was lovely.

So I went home and consulted his journal for Feb. 20, 1859: "It is a warm west wind and a remarkably soft sky, like plush; perhaps a lingering moisture there. What a reve[la]tion the blue and the bright tints in the west again, after the storm and darkness! It is the opening of the windows of heaven after the flood." Later, Henry reports that a boy in Concord saw a bluebird on this day, 150 years ago.

Even better, on Jan. 20, 1855, Henry writes of something even more lovely:
"Very musical and even sweet now, like a horn, is the hounding of a foxhound heard now in some distant wood, while I stand listening in some far solitary and silent field." Music to my ears, too, Henry!

Definition of handsome

I don’t really need spectacles to look professorial. When I first moved to Wellesley, and was duly shown off to everyone, one of Mom’s colleagues said I looked just like Dad.

Dad should have been flattered, especially as he has compared himself to Tramp, the good-hearted scamp, and Mom to Lady, the refined purebred, in that famous Disney pic. Someone had given my sister the movie-based book when she was a baby and my family read it over, and over, and over. That spaghetti scene sure was a winner. “He wasn’t really handsome….but she loved him just the same.” Dad was being humble. I, like Dad, am plenty handsome.

Anyway, apparently I not only look the part of an educator, but actually am considered one. The difference between obstinate and stubborn? Someone in the Philippines searched, and presumably found out, from this blog. Try Googling, and I’m the first result, the go-to guy for definitions, at least the trickier ones.

Just a few examples of the answers people seek that lead them to land on my blog:

Difference between obstinate and obdurate? Difference between obstinate and stubborn? Substantive vs. substantial? Apparently, being both substantive and substantial, I’m the hound to ask.

Origin of obstinate? (via Starke, Fla., and Dallas, TX—do they know each other?) Example of things that are obstinate? (bet Milwaukee, WI learned that definition well) English word for “moi au contraire”? (Bridgeton, Saint Michael, which is in Barbados!)

One attention-getting visitor locale was Wasilla, Alaska—yes, that Wasilla. Not sure how that reader came to Dreams du Dog.  Perhaps she was looking to me to define “book censorship?”

Friday, February 19, 2010

Phobias: handicap or sign of genius?

A fascinating New Yorker piece by Susan Orlean ("Riding High," Feb. 15, 2010) on mules in the military tells the tale of 12 mules who were the subject of an experiment: put parachutes on them, push them out of a plane, and see whether they can safely land and deliver whatever is needed in the battlefield.

After the first six were duly pushed out, and did not survive, the next six simply refused to go. Stubborn, or smart?

“It is a characteristic of the breed to have an inviolable commitment to self-preservation, which is often misinterpreted as stubbornness,” writes Orlean.

I say phobias clearly are a sign of genius. Partly because I have so many and as faithful readers of my blog know, not only am I extremely handsome but also highly intelligent.

Below I delineate my phobias. You be the judge as to whether they signify genius, or at least, a refined sensibility that clearly is connected to self-preservation.

Phobia #1: Loud noises. At the sound of thunder, I hide. At the sound of firecrackers, I run. A hunter I once met said that I was probably exposed incorrectly to the sound of gunfire. Clearly, genius.

Phobia #2: Strange conveyances. When my family came to pick me up at the shelter, I wouldn’t get in the car. As part of the adoption contract, I had to be seen by a vet within 10 days. Mom went nuts trying to meet that deadline—not in making the appointment, but in convincing me that the car was not a hound-eating beast. In fact, Mom’s friend had to TiVo the Dog Whisperer episode on this very topic and Mom watched it over and over until she knew what to do. And it took every one of those 10 days for me to submit.

Now that I love the car, they try that old trick of saying C-A-R. What do they think, I can’t spell?

Never get into strange cars. Smart, no?

Phobia #3: Strange thresholds. I had never been in a house before, so what did I know about going in and going out? How did I know that there would be lots of beds and food and white couches to happily dirty? I learned quickly, though I made them wait for it by performing the Plop O'Doom reliably, and infuriatingly.
See number 2.

Phobia #4. Temperature below 32 degrees Farenheit. No need for an outdoor thermometer! I just stick out my neck, staying well within the door frame. Anything below freezing is just too darn cold. Absolutely brilliant.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Best of breed? Westminster and me

Did you catch the American Foxhound results from the Westminster Dog Show? I have to say, all of my relatives looked pretty good. Markings aren't part of the judging, but we all know mine are very special.

All of the contestants were considerably more svelte than I, if not quite as handsome.
You can catch the video here, as well as see the photo of Fame and Fortune, the best of breed winner. Alas, because of my altered state, I am prohibited from competing in such shows. Were I not, we all know who would come out victorious.

Best of Dalmatians results are here, and while there are some good-looking pups, they're no match for Sparky.