La dolce vita in Wellesley

Gorgeous day, gorgeous girl. What could be more sweet?

The setting: the Italian garden at Wellesley (the house, not the town)
The event:  a perfect passeggiata with my beloved
The girl: the gorgeous, golden-haired Kiki, who is patient, devoted, always in a great mood
The result: romantico!

How I turned several shades of gray—in an instant!

Emulating Harry.

An orange truck sizzled against green grass that stretched to the horizon. A group of musclebound workers packed up, admired their handiwork creating new striping on the soccer field, and prepared to drive off.

That's where I entered this cliche and broke it right open.

My nose led me straight to the wide, bright white sideline stripe. I stopped, dropped and rolled. And rolled. And rolled.

When I got up, I looked like  Harry the Dirty Dog before he got dirty. Remember that Gene Zion classic? Where he was white with black patches and turned black with white patches, I became a dirtyish kind of gray. So much so that a neighbor thought I had suddenly aged. I am graying, a bit, at the temples, if you look very closely, but really! I'm only five.

Harry and I have a lot in common: we both prefer not to be groomed. However, our escapades ended with the same four-letter word: B-A-T-H.

Allowed inside again.

Good grooming, CrossFit style!

Pre-grooming. Imagine how good I look now!

If there were a dog CrossFit category, I'd be in. If awards were given for good grooming, however, I'd be out.

Given that everyone needs to come clean eventually, even me, I decided to do it CrossFit style. You know, 20 brutal minutes yields incredible results.

So I called on my friend Karen Hayes, who not only is a CrossFitter in superb shape, but also owns a mobile grooming van in Natick called Pawsible Solutions. Like CrossFit—you hate to go, glad you did it when it's over—I knew I was in for it when she pulled up in my driveway.

Dad lured me outside with a "let's go in the car" bait-and-switch, and when I balked outside the van, Karen just picked up all 90 stubborn pounds of me and popped me in. Now, given that my equine tendencies (I fall asleep standing up, pick up my hooves—I mean paws—for cleaning, spook at nothing, balk, am extraordinarily stubborn, etc. etc.) include performing like a bucking bronco, her picking me up is no mean feat.

I quickly overcame my shock and, given that this was my first time in a van, plopped right in the driver's seat, just to see what it was like.

Somehow, Karen got me out of there, got me groomed, and voila, I'm a new man. Karen also does dog-walking and pet sitting, and I can tell you, when she says "walk," I do it. Just like any CrossFitter would.

Labor Day, D list style

Not being on the A list, I didn't make the cut for the Labor Day party at our friends' on Weston Road, so I had to go scrounge up a burger on my own.

I mean, my talent at sniffing out discarded goods is, I dare say, more valuable than that orca-scat sniffing dog that runs around the Pacific. You did see that Times piece, right? OK, he's saving the whales, I'm saving...a spot on the couch?

So it was a few days old, and lying in the woods. The burger, not the orca. No bun, but what did I care? Give me the meat, I say.

Mom said the same thing. I don't get it: she was at the party, she had a burger, with bun, right off the grill. What did she want with my find?

I'll never know. She opened my jaws, grabbed the burger, and tossed it further into the woods. It pains me that it will be eaten by some raccoon or something who won't know anything about sirloin, much less be properly informed about the significance of Labor Day. 

What kind of treats does that whale-sniffing dog earn, anyway?

I lie, faint from hunger, pondering the state of unions and
bemoaning the fate of the orcas.