Monday, April 18, 2011

Cheering them on at the Boston Marathon!

A quiet moment pondering the running styles of humans.
If a prize were given to the loudest and most effective cheer along the entire 26.2 mile route from Hopkinton to Boston, without a doubt it would be awarded to moi.

Such a cheer, ideally, should not only be heard by a crowd, but also cause a respective roar from said appreciative crowd.

So when I let loose with a bay, the spectators at the Natick-Wellesley line on Rte. 135 bayed back. I did it again. They responded. The runners smiled and poured it on, although the downhill slope also might have helped.

One might say that it was my own personal scream tunnel. Take that, Wellesley College girls! Speaking of, I was kissed multiple times by a new pup I met along the route. Aaah-wooooo!

Sunday, April 17, 2011

The Boston Marathon: a Wellesley pup's perspective

I'll be there, as usual, at Rte. 135 in Wellesley, just before the scream tunnel at Wellesley College and a mile before the half-way point, baying at inappropriate moments, scrounging for food and generally making a nuisance of myself. I'm just crazy about the Boston Marathon!

Just as humans love to watch foxhounds leap over fences during a classic hunt, foxhounds love to watch people run. Why? I will explain: they love to be incited to run, and, then, naturally, to beat said humans. Certainly, if hounds were bred to run in a straight line, we'd have captured every marathon record there is out there, by a ton.

Mom, however, will be sitting out the half-marathon she's been training for, having done entirely too much Cross-Fit jumping around with heavy weights and tearing a crucial muscle in her leg. She's been on the IR for weeks, but I haven't given her a break in the walk department. Work through it, Mom, I say.

Because I've had some practice, trying to feel sorry for Mom and all, I'll try to gather up some sympathy for the struggling runners out there tomorrow. I know it's tough for peeps. If their hot, perspiring faces need they need a lick or two to keep themselves going, I'll oblige. A loud bay might also do the trick, propelling them the rest of the 13 miles to Boston. Onward, runners—I'll be watching you!

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Down came the rain and...I panicked

You know how it is. You put away your winter coat, finally, and the next day it snows. So three times this winter, Mom and Dad put away my crate, sized XL, wanting a more streamlined look to our living room, they said. Like, so sorry that my comfort gets in the way of your design preferences!

Well, they received their comeuppance. Each time, thunderstorms wreaked havoc on our sweet home environment that very night!

Just last week, they put the crate away again. Now, while it didn't storm that night, Mr. Smoke Detector did become riled up, beeping and screaming his "Evacuate! Evacuate!" alerts. At 2 a.m., of course, creating not only a panic attack on my part but great grumbling from the parental units. Had they changed the batteries on time, they could have avoided the whole thing. But no.

Inevitably, then, the rain came tonight, with thunderstorms predicted before 5 a.m. Not wanting a repeat, because she was the one who had to get a stepladder and change the batteries, with me whining and shaking the whole time, and it being 2 a.m. and all, Mom insisted on bringing up the crate from the basement. Dad, Mr. Too Much Trouble, was the naysayer. Just to make a point, I'm refusing to get into it.

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.