|In my own, forgotten little corner. Mom later gave|
me a blanket—voila! New sleeping place.
I have two modes: the first, and most common, is silent. My nails do not click, click on the hardwood floor. My hardware does not jangle. I do not pant like a Lab. My tail, when wagged, does not knock anything off the table. In short, I move about the house mostly unobserved, which is kind of fun for someone my size. I slip down the basement stairs at the slightest sign the door is open and take up residence on the couch, refusing to come up. I pad upstairs, unnoticed, after baying a greeting to a visitor (my alternative mode, which is more like a proclamation than any bark you've ever heard).
Which leads my family to frantically believe I have somehow left the premises. Because I have many, many hiding places, "Where's Tucker?" becomes kind of a game. Fortunately, I do not have to wear anything unusual—I'm distinctive enough to be recognized just about anywhere within a, say, five mile radius.
Today's storm downed trees in Wellesley and Natick and scared me enough to find a new venue for my game. I pushed between the armchair and the piano (a tight squeeze, in all directions, but I was desperate). You know how when you play hide and seek, it's at first exciting to know people are looking for you? Then it gets boring when no one can find you?
That's what happened to me. I shivered hoping someone would find me. Finally Dad appeared, as did my own personal rainbow.