Friday, April 8, 2011

The case of the purloined Pups

I'm not really teensy. I just take a small picture.
Now, that case of the stolen puppies at the Sterling Animal Shelter is too heinous to riff on. When a true life Cruella de Vil like band is about, no pup is safe. Eight of the nine stolen puppies have been recovered.

But it was also true that I routed out my sister's old Pups last week, much to her chagrin. Sparky, who was keen on being top dog, used to tear the noses off every stuffed Dalmatian she had, and she had a ton.
Pups, however, is a different story. "Tucker can have any of my stuffed animals, but he cannot have Pups," I overheard my college-bound sister say.

Well, it was a bit too late. Pups' heritage: eons ago Mom was pushing my sister around some outdoorsy store, and she spied Pups. Seeing the $19.99 price tag, Mom tried to ignore the request. But realizing that my sister almost never asked for anything, she brought Pups to the counter, where she learned he was $9.99. So Pups became one of the first dogs in the family. Interesting, isn't it, how much he looks like me?

Friday, April 1, 2011

April foolin' around

The picture of sincerity.
So, I knew it was snowing, which is why I slept in rather than bombing around the house and whooo-hooing for Dad to take me for a walk.

Then I had an idea. How about I give it the old whoo-hoo, make Dad put on all his winter gear, etc., etc., and then balk at the last moment?

It worked. I April Fooled Dad into thinking I would actually go out even though it was raining, snowing and ka-thunking giant gobs o' ice and snow down around our Swellesley home.

Which leads me to a poem.

Hubbubility, or How I Rule the Roost
by Tucker

I thought Mom the one most gullible,
And Dad the most untroubleble.
But when I've got the itch
To pull a bait and switch,
They're a cinch to make hubbubable.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Tucker's first full supermoon

Last night's supermoon reminded me of nothing less than an empty food bowl. While one might have expected me to have bayed at the stunning sight, the only yowls I let out were ones of hunger, after being woken from my early bedtime and dragged outside.

I couldn't help but be reminded of that sweet little kitten in Kevin Henkes' Kitten's First Full Moon, who sees the moon and wants it, then thinks its reflection in the water is a bowl of milk (hey, wasn't that a dog story to start with—remember, in Aesop's Fables, the dog sees the reflection of his bone in the water and is so greedy that as he opens his mouth to scoop up the supposed second bone, the real one falls into the drink). Anyway, Henkes' kitten finally laps up a real bowl of milk. I guess I can forgive Mr. Henkes for turning the dog into a kitten, him having won the Caldecott Medal for it and all.

A satisfying tale, perfectly done. But I digress.

I stumbled along the edge of the pond, bleary-eyed. Mom, always eager to see a natural event, woke practically everybody in the neighborhood, so I didn't have to do anything, voice-wise. However, when she tore our friends Carol and Don away from their pasta to see the trumpeted supermoon, I tried to insist they return to their dinner. They are so good-natured that they were not even deterred by my jumping on them, my paws over Don's shoulders in a weird kind of dance. So we all took in the supermoon, and then, properly awed, and after more than a decent interval, went home. In retribution for the interrupted sleep,  I demanded several treats and a peanut butter bone.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Pi day, or is it pie day?

I was so excited when my math-focused sister told me today was pie day—I'm crazy about it! Then, when I noticed she was knitting mittens with three stripes, then one stripe, then four stripes, in this nutty pattern that had no pattern at all, I nudged her several times with my oversized nose. Where, after all, was the pie?
An empty bowl is a sad thing. Dirty, too. Where's that maid?

I suffered through her explanation. But look, the one circle I care about is my bowl. Whether it's full or not is the only thing I'd even dream of calculating at suppertime.

But in honor of Pi Day, and looking ahead to National Canine Poetry Fortnight, I herewith present my Pi poem. The syllables represent the first few digits of pi, which, I learned, is 3.141592653...and since pi is infinite, food is the optimal subject of my poem. Just don't try to measure my diameter. Paws off!

For the Love of Pi (e)
by Tucker

Tell you true.
love pie, pie, pie.

Apple, cherry, plum
All make scrumptious pickings for my tum.

If one
Should even try to take
Precious pie away—
Hear me bay.

Awooooooooo ad infinitum