A memorable Memorial Day

The weekend began with a bang—literally, as I crashed into the back door at about 6:30 Saturday a.m. I'll never be qualified to protect my country, but I certainly know how to protect my property and its occupants, inside and out.

Our fish were under attack from a marauding cat, and it fell to me to respond.

Finding the glass door to the garden closed did not deter me. I proceeded to bay in alarm, waking up everyone within at least a quarter of a mile. Mom skidded downstairs, opened the door (it was locked, or I could have opened it myself) and out I tore. Said cat escaped through a hole in the fence behind the bunny cage, while I sustained a battle injury from twisting my considerable bulk in the small space betwixt cage and fence.

As I rested on my cat-free lawn and baked in the sun, I observed several moments of silence as I reflected, as one should, on the sacrifices that have made our country great. I am humbled and grateful.

Stopping by dealerships on Memorial Day weekend

Which car we’ll buy I do not know

Mom only wants our old Volvo.

Dad says the time has come, past time,

To give that car the old heave-ho.

You’d not but think I’d try to rhyme

In verses noble and sublime

For one so steady, true and dear

Who’s stood the test of twelve years’ time.

Because she goes in just one gear

Old Bessie’s like a souvenir.

She helps me get my beauty sleep

As, chugging on, she perseveres.

A new car’s cost is much too steep.

My bank account’s not small or deep

With miles to go before she sleeps

More miles in her, I think she’ll keep.

Tucker to the rescue on a wonderful Wellesley weekend

Except for the fireworks capping off Wellesley's Wonderful Weekend, which went off as planned and forced me to seek shelter in the cavernous regions of my sister's closet, the weekend was glorious. Among my escapades:

1. Helped round up my neighbor Ellie, a fetching Portuguese Water Dog. She wasn't missing, but wouldn't come in–for hours. Ironically, this same behavior earned me probation at a certain dog hotel. In this case, however, I was the bait. Ellie came to the fence to greet me. Wild-eyed at my traitorous behavior, she was dragged inside by her mother.
   
2. Hopped in a 2009 Volvo wagon, and it was quite a hop. Fortunately, I'm nimble. But I nearly bumped my noble head—the headroom is a full two inches shorter than in old Bessie. Given that I've only an inch to spare in the Bessie mobile, this presents a problem. My test drive was courtesy of Robert at Wellesley Volvo, who earlier in the day had offered to stop by my domicile and pick me up. I adore being driven around, and it seems like Robert gets the idea.
   
3. Had a splendid spring walk around Lake Waban, the cannon from the 18th century encampment booming in the background.
   
4. Tried to hop into my sister's kayak, the sit on top kind, while Mom was in it. Together, not only would we have exceeded the weight limit of this ordinarily seaworthy craft, we would also have had occasion for a lovely swim in Morses Pond. Well, why not?
   
5. Missed the annual dog contest, again, out of modesty. It would be too embarrassing to win every category.
   
6. Chased a baby bunny. Helped Mom dig in the garden. Slept in the sun. Spring!

A baby bunny has taken up residence under the playhouse.

What a (sales) woman!

What kind of salesperson would offer to drive a new car to your home, pick up your dog, and take him for a test drive?

Wendy, that's who! Even when Mom showed up glummer than glum at the Honda dealer, having pinky-sworn an open mind to Dad before they left (her fingers on the other hand were crossed) and was unbelievably impolite, Wendy tried like crazy to please. She thought of every possible car that would fit our family's needs (as we know, those needs are tri-colored, XL, and awfully demanding). When it looked like one might do, she made the offer, with enthusiasm.

Unfortunately for her, though, this time it was Dad who wasn't interested. "Too small," was his only comment.

Why don't they make openings on the insides of pockets?

Because I was stuck at home, with nothing to do, I chewed on the car situation. Then I chewed on Mom's running jacket. She had left it, well within reach, on the coat rack, its pocket full of treats. What was she thinking?  Perhaps when she comes to, she'll realize there's really only one car for me.

Car shopping headaches—literally

Taking Mom car shopping is simply asking for it. She loves the old Volvo, and that's that. Take me car shopping, however, and you've got a partner for life.

So last week Dad and I hit the Wellesley VW dealer, with Mom slinking along. All of our hopes were up, sort of:

• Dad's, because he liked the mileage of the diesel Jetta Sportwagen—and the sticker price.
• Mom's, because she read that the wagon would appeal to the die-hard traditionalist. That's her, all right.
• Mine, because I heard it was a great car for large dogs. I already had hopped into my friend Freckles' wagon one day, and found it charming.
• My sister's, had she been there, because the car comes in a couple of good colors.

Kind salesperson finds a car for me to test drive—from the rear, of course. I hop in the cargo area just fine. Then Dad shuts the lid. I try to turn around, and, because the wayback clearance for a tall guy like me is pretty wimpy—BUMP—my head hits the window. I nearly was concussed.

Ye Olde Wagon outside our summer rental in Maine.
Note the wayback headroom. And the waterview.

So that was that. And even Dad, who keeps complaining that Mom is like Goldilocks, had to agree that the car was too small.