Monday, December 20, 2010

Cookies have me salivating...for a Dreams du Dog Christmas

With Christmas coming up, Mom pulled out her Dreams du Dog special recipes and got baking. Today she made Gingerbread Bones for Good Boys. These are cookie-swap good. My friend Kiki's mom, who loves sweets, mistook them for people cookies and raved about them, then nearly had a heart attack when she found out they were for Kiki, not her.

No worries! Dreams du Dog cookies are made with ingredients—the best—right from the people pantry. I'm crazy about them, but then I'll eat anything (see previous post). Sparky was the true inspiration for the baking business. No stale supermarket "treats" for him—only the best. He'd just spit out all those old Milk-Bones that people proffer. Pitooey! So my sister and Mom started doing some baking, and he supervised every move.

Today I even sat, stayed and zoomed over when called, then knocked Mom over for my reward. "Bones for Good Boys?" she reminded me.

 So, what's in a name? When she refused to give me any more, I went into the pantry and helped myself.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

A disquisition on the littering habits of my countrymen

I've got to hand it to those treasure-seeking trollers on the beach of Mom's childhood: you never know what you're going to find. While they were on the lookout for coins of the realm, I'm interested in more caloric fare.

Today, for example, I found a great hunk o'bread round the shores of Lake Waban, under a pile of leaves. Then, I snagged a piece of a cupcake (chocolate! with icing!) that somehow was stuck to the trunk of someone's car. That was just a single outing.

Chicken legs, chicken bones, big hunks of roasted chicken. Parts of McDonald's Quarter Pounders. Fries to go with them. Did I mention chicken bones? Bones of all kinds.

One could conclude we are a nation who likes to throw its extra food out the window.

Now that we have a critical mass of Dunkin' Donuts emporia (roughly every 200 feet; otherwise, immediately across the street) in our town, one can expect a concomitant increase in insignia trash. When my sister was 5 and on a visit to our nation's capital, she became disturbed at all of the Dunkin' Donuts cups and napkins she saw strewn about.

While she planned to write a letter to the company president, I'm not at all sure she got around to it. Meanwhile, if people would just toss the donuts away so I can find them, and throw the paper stuff in the trash, I'd be good with that.

Monday, December 13, 2010

4 p.m. T-time: that's Tucker time

4 p.m., and I'm raring to go. So I make the appropriate noises, nudge my leash, and plaster myself to the door to the garage. There's only one way I go after 4 p.m., and that's by C-A-R.

Mom, thinking she's going to win this one, coaxes me to the front door. She wants to walk, not drive, after she's just filled the wagon with gas at $3.15 per gallon. And blah, blah, blah. She's complaining that she's going to put on all her gear, make sure she has this, has that, etc., etc. and that after she's all ready, I'll refuse to go.

Boy, she's got that right. I look like I'm aiming for the front door, but I slip—stealthily (and you can check my definition of that in an earlier post) —right into the crate, which my folks quite properly term "The $100 Avoidance Chamber." And I look perfectly comfy in there.

I'm good at this. So good, in fact, that when my very first blog follower came for a visit, I pulled the same trick. The idea was we all were going for a walk to Morses Pond. No one, of course, consulted moi. 

"Does he like his crate?" this dear person asked. Mom practically snorted.

Sure, I like it just fine, and just long enough for Mom to give up and drive me to a nice, big field. After all, I like to do things one way—my way.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Check up: good news, bad news, and does this count as a bath?

The good news from my checkup with Dr. Schettino at VCA Westboro: I didn't get weighed! No counting of Weight Watchers points for me, pal. Here's the trick. First, execute a perfect Plop O'Doom. That means a heavy sink into the floor. Plopsville. Even with Mom on the floor, pushing, and Dr. S. standing up, pulling, they got nowheresville. It was great, even though Dr. S. said I reminded him of a donkey.

Mom then tried the "door #2" method to get me into the back room where they do all those yucky procedures, but all I could say was: No can do. Finally, I gave in to have a heartworm check, bordatella vaccination, etc. etc., but having successfully tried the patience of everybody, they somehow forgot about the weigh-in. Whew!

In my defense, I recently had my mass accounted for. When I was last there a couple of weeks ago, the technician came out with a sad look. "He's 88 pounds," she lamented. Mom exulted—at least four lbs off my top weight! I didn't tell either of them that I exhaled just before getting on the scale, then shifted my bulk onto just one hindquarter.

Now the bad news. Dr. S. says I have oily skin and need a bath once a week. Sparky only needed a bath twice a year! So, does my walk this morning count? I got soaked.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Sneaky, surreptitious, or just napping? You decide

So, when my parents came home from the pre-Cotillion party and left me behind, did they expect to see me bounding downstairs, wagging my tail and just overjoyed that they deigned to return and keep me company?

Apparently, I couldn't be found. What is this, Goldie Foxhound and The Three Bears in reverse? Someone would come in and steal just me (precious though I am)? Didn't they check all the beds?

They said they did. I wasn't in: the guest room (Grandma left today); the beanbag in the study; my sister's bed; my parents' bed; the living room; my chair; my $100 avoidance chamber (the crate). Precious things, they panicked!

Moms, however, keep clear heads in times of emergency. She uttered my favorite word, car of course, and out I came from my hiding place. I wish to keep that secret.

Speaking of secrets, was I being sneaky? That is, defined as furtive, or sly? Covert? Clandestine? Stealthy?

Surreptitious? Meaning my hiding spot was kept secret, connoting guilt, because it wouldn't be approved of? (That couldn't possibly be. What haven't they allowed?)

Or was I just napping, resting, dormant, or relaxed?

Friday, November 26, 2010

All hounds on deck! A hunting we will go!

I was super excited when Mom told me about the Norfolk Hunt Club's Thanksgiving Day hunt. I had visions of me leaping over fences, scrambling through ditches and generally having a wild time. The thrill of the chase! The lure of the scent!

Alas, it was not to be. Though I did snag some dark turkey meat, the only hunting I did was for scraps near the oven while Mom was cooking. Then, my people left me savoring the tantalizing smell of meat while they hoofed it out to watch the hunt.

Well, I could have told them all about it. After all, in my six months in South Carolina, I had plenty of experience. At the end of the day, while country life has its charms, and I wouldn't mind sharing a sleeping space with my canine kin, a kennel just can't compare with a warm blanket. Or a bed all to oneself. Or turkey with gravy.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Grateful, or thankful? What's the difference?

So, I'm thinking of things I'm thankful for, this being Thanksgiving and all, and as I'm toting up all that's terrific in my life, I start wondering: am I thankful, or am I grateful? 

For example, am I thankful for the luxurious new Italian wool throw that my cugini sent, or am I grateful that they left so I can have my room back? Furthermore, did Mom feel embarrassed that I had chewed holes through the old throw?

I will elucidate. The definitions, then:
1. grateful: feeling or showing an appreciation of kindness. So I would be grateful for a new wool throw to wrap 'round my tired self. How terribly kind of them to think of me.
2. thankful: pleased and relieved (no kidding!) Obviously, I'm thankful that I have my room back.
And Mom will be embarrassed once my dear cugini see just how grateful, and thankful, I am. Cozy, too.

Happy Thanksgiving!