Monday, May 16, 2011

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.

Friday, May 13, 2011

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.

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!