Monday, May 2, 2011

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.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Happy Easter, Swellesley style

Two sets of bunny ears?
Swellesley's so civilized, a bunny can run right under the nose of a hunting dog and be perfectly safe (I love bunnies!). It's so civilized, that foxhounds consent to wearing bunny ears. It's so civilized, that foxhounds try to leap up on small girls to steal their bunny ears (sorry, Olivia!) but are prevented by their hawk-like parents.

I did not participate in the usual Easter morning hunt, my parents being disappointed in my behavior. I stole a gigantic something (it was delicious) from the street during my walk, and Mom felt that I had exceeded my extra-caloric limit. To make up for it, I tried to act a bit Sparky-like by donning this ridiculous outfit. Not only was he delighted to dress up, he also was a very successful plastic egg hunter and deft opener of said eggs. Our Easter bunny sets out eggs with Charlee Bear treats inside, but this year,  the E.B. must have anticipated my gluttonous behavior, for I received a big goose egg instead: exactly zero.

Thanks to C.H. for the Easter portrait. Next year, I'm going egg-hunting at your house.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Attention please: can dogs eat edamame?

Ok, I have to be honest with myself: did I really want to try the edamame, or was I merely engaging in attention-seeking behavior?

Never to take the simplest path, and feeling a little Willy Loman-esque, of course I wanted attention. Attention must be paid to this dog!

Mom was packing up to take my sister to a college overnight, and I didn't like the look of things at all. I am not a fan of travel, especially when I am not included. I didn't see anyone gathering up my travel bowls, beds, accessories, toys—all the essentials. Instead, my folks had stacked up a few treats on the kitchen island. Yeah, I knew they weren't for me. I didn't even try them—simply carried the container to my lair, artfully scattered the edamame on the rug, and delayed departure by at least a few minutes.

And when everyone came home, I knocked them over, just to show how much I missed them.

To the question of whether dogs can eat edamame, of course we can! We can eat anything—it's the results that are questionable, and according to my research, humans don't tend to appreciate the gastrointestinal consequences.

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?