Help for hounds, and treats, too

Today's an open house (12-5 p.m.—be there) and the dedication of the isolation unit at Greyhound Friends in Hopkinton, the venerable rescue and adoption shelter that has been finding homes for my fleeter relatives since 1983.

So, run, don't walk—the unit's important because pets from southern climes have been bringing in all sorts of diseases that vets don't ordinarily see here in Massachusetts. The open house is also a chance for greyhound owners to get together for a fun meetup. 

Fortunately, though I'm from South Carolina, I headed up here disease-free. Stubborn as all get-out, but healthy.

My nifty new treat jar from Second Chances in Natick.

If you can't get there, at least make it to Greyhound Friends' thrift shop, Second Chances, in downtown Natick, on West Central right near Main. We donated a bunch of dog-related goodies, and couldn't resist picking up a treat jar. It's fab. Also, we found a super feeder that puts all I need at just the right height. All I need, one must emphasize, not all I want.

In return for our donations, I was offered a bottle of glucosamine, but declined on account of my callow youth. More on age when you hear about my big Plop O'Doom yesterday. That's another story.

Senior Pet Day, hawk cam and horsing around

Mom is starry-eyed with the hawk cam outside the NYU president's office, exclaiming every time she catches a glimpse of the baby, which viewers have named Pip. He is kind of cute, but although I like the Dickens reference, for me it's only a virtual attraction: I prefer chasing the real goslings, eight of them, that have arrived at the pond.

I got close to another fowl last week: a rooster, brought to Senior Pet Day at Wellesley High School. Not senior-aged pets, but pets of senior-level teens. While not exactly the star of the show (that designation of course goes to moi) it was a rather unusual choice. Less unusual, perhaps, than the photo of the pet rock that was circulated as ambulatory pets and seniors paraded.

Just to make my presence known, I let out a spectacular bay at the sight of one of my neighbors, a scruffy black thing. Small, but vicious. Unfortunately, I have firsthand knowledge of its tiny sharp teeth. Fortunately, my height came in handy when it attempted to go for the jugular.

Speaking of tall, was that a horse at WHS last week, just outside the library doors? Despising being upstaged, I'm glad I wasn't present.

Wellesley's Wonderful Foxhound—I mean Weekend

Of course there's a dog contest this weekend, because Swellesley's just so swonderful! I plan to check it out, from 10-10:30 Saturday at the Warren Center. You should, too, but I'm pretty sure I've got first prize in the bag.

That's just one of the super events planned.  Count me in on Saturday's pancake breakfast, and definitely save a spot on the town forest walk: cake and refreshments will be served. Perhaps I'll follow that hectic morning with a free massage, or maybe just a nap. I'm a little worried, however, that the hourly cannon firing might disrupt my sleep schedule. XXL canine earplugs, anyone?

If anyone is wondering if it will rain—again—for the fireworks on Sunday, just check with me. If I'm shivering, that means a thunderstorm is coming. Of course, if the fireworks go off, I'll be shivering anyway. Either way, I'm bound to jiggle off quite a few calories.

Find more great Wellesley events on this schedule.

A foxhound speaks to birds

Being a bit behind of sorts, I dug around in my notebooks and found this nugget. 

Things are rather chirpy all of a sudden, and it was warm enough, once, for me to lay out in the sun and listen. Thus being in a position to ponder the wonders of avians, I dashed off a few verses.

A Foxhound Speaks to Birds

You are you
And I am I
And that is why
I cannot fly.

by Tucker

Actually, I can fly, and I would, except that some human always seems to be holding on to me. It's really very sad. So on to another bird poem:

Red Tail

Red tails' delight:
Rodent tails at night.
Red tails' warning:
Bright sails of morning.

by Tucker

And one more:

Words of Birds

The words of birds
Waver, dip, soar.
A flash of wing
As they sing, sing, sing.
by Tucker

All poems composed by Tucker in honor of National Canine Poetry Fortnight, which has segued nicely into National Poetry Month.

Caesar is dead! Long live Caesar!

The old Boston terrier in my neighborhood got out and was run over by a truck. It was kind of inevitable, given his desire to tear limbs off passerby, wheeled or otherwise. Yet, he had passed the Ides of March safely, and no one was expecting it.

Caesar was an old pal of Sparky's and they played together when he was a pup. Then C was sent to boot camp and came back an angry guy.

He and I never properly met, and that was OK with me. I've also never met the mastiff who joined him last year, and, ditto, so fences do help to make good neighbors, though not quiet ones.

So I did a triple double take when I sauntered by and there was Caesar, back from the dead! Turns out to be not a ghost, like Hamlet's father, but indeed, as if 'twere a mirror, two new Boston terriers, Romeo and Juliet.

"The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones."

Thanks to my literary sister for the Julius Caesar quote. While she plays the viola, her name is not Olivia. Email me if you don't get the reference, and I will enlighten.

I’ve been to London to visit the Queen…

I have been away, it's true, and then there was a brief Blogger blackout, so back I am.

In answer to “Tuckerkin, Tuckerkin, where have you been,” I snuck a peek at the royal wedding (where were those corgis?), frightened several chipmunks under my sister’s playhouse when I returned, and have been spending time getting my physique into racing shape.

Not that any part of me could, or even would, compete with the now-famous Pippa Middleton.  However, I have been rather into fashion lately, on account of the upcoming Wellesley High School prom, senior banquet, performing arts banquet, myriads of concerts, graduation, and graduation parties galore, all requiring just the right outfit. And shoes, of course.

Notice I'm looking a bit exhausted in my pic. In the past two weeks, to go along with the full calendar of events, I've been turned out of my room so often for guests that I don't even know where to sleep. Two more nights to go, then it's mine for a week or so, then more guests arrive. It's really interesting how my folks pretend to said guests that I sleep in the dog bed and that, therefore, it's no problem whatsoever and in fact they're delighted!

I suspect that had I stayed away any longer, they might have permanently rented my room.

Prom time! Bath time, too...

So when I heard the word "bath," I immediately hunkered down in the deep recesses of my sister's closet, hoping no one would find me. The closet starts at the front of her room and goes all the way into the eaves at the back, so when I say deep recesses, I mean it.

Anyway, whilst I was quietly avoiding my fate, I noticed a bevy of gorgeous prom dresses lent to my sis by her cousins. They didn't work for her, so I thought I'd try some on, fresh from my Easter bonnet success. I did look good.

Alas, I had to give up the silk and satin for some suds. Dad dragged me out of the closet, and bribed by Mom with a ride in the car, I succumbed. Just in case I'm asked to chaperone or something, I'll be ready.