Dreams du Dog

I'm on WBUR!

2012-02-13T19:58:00.000-05:00

OK, so I didn't write the winning essay for RadioBoston's and The Drum Literary Magazine's Zip-Code Stories (Mom did) but I do have a significant presence in the actual essay and in the interview that aired this afternoon on WBUR. Let's just say Mom should be ashamed that she leaves me behind when she goes ice skating on Morses Pond (MoPo to us insiders). At least I was quoted high up in the piece. Plus she threw in a plug for my blog.

After all, one could hardly discuss 02482 without mentioning moi. I'm quite the celeb and expect concomitant treatment. For example, I shove my way right into the offices at Wellesley Books and my nose right into the copious dog biscuit bins, and they still let me in. I could argue that I help sell dog books, as today I planted myself right in front of the excellent display, conveniently located within reach of the treat bin.

Concomitant. There's a word you don't run across every day. Therefore, I shall provide the definition: as an adjective, naturally accompanying or associated with. But I like the noun form: a phenomenon that naturally follows or is associated with something. That's me: a phenomenon, and I certainly and naturally accompany Mom wherever (almost) she goes.

Have a listen here. Unfortunately, a recording of my resounding bays would have blown out the mikes, so one must imagine them instead.

Super Bowl dog commercials: to VW go the spoils!

2012-02-05T20:04:00.002-05:00

I'm not much of a football fan once Boston College finishes its season (this year a tough one for the Eagles) but I belly up to the TV for Super Bowl commercials.

This year—and I'm writing at the half, because I can't lose too much sleep over vapid talking baby spots, violent action movie trailers and all the other predictable ads that make one's eyes glaze over—I was pleased to see a significant number of commercials with canine stars.

My favorite so far? The VW Beetle ad, in which an overweight golden slims down through a tough regimen of pool swimming, running, and stair work, and then glides through the air, a trimmer, stylish creature, much like the car. Mom's first car was a yellow Beetle, the original kind, so perhaps I'm partial. Or perhaps it's because I've had my own weight issues.

Speaking of, I weighed in at a record low of 84.4 lbs at the vet's last week.

Wait til next year: my distinctive voice will join this choir.

Just peeked to see what else will air (see all the videos here) and loved the dogs barking to the Darth Vader theme. Halloween costume idea! Note to VW: a foxhound bay could somehow be written in, and I know just the guy for the job.

I appreciated the stately Dalmatian on the Budweiser wagon, although the faux motion picture treatment was bland; I was almost there with the Doritos' Great Dane, but found the ending too pat; and sorry, but greyhound racing is so not OK, Skechers. Plus, pugs are so several years ago. As for the Suzuki ads, you how I feel about huskies.

Naptime, interrupted

2012-02-03T19:48:00.000-05:00

So Mom and Dad had a new mattress delivered, and after a decent interval — I let them sleep on it one night — I checked it out myself.

Mom's been having sleep issues, so my thinking is, why waste a brand-new, premium sleeping structure on her?

She rudely interrupted me for this photo, then I turned around and settled back into the pillows. Right in the middle. Aaahhhh.

Make the punishment fit the crime? As in smaller bowl? No way!

2012-02-01T21:37:00.000-05:00

Hilarious, no? No.

While Mom must think so (thanks to the super creative Heather Kelly, for the terrific wanted poster idea), my caloric intake is no laughing matter. A dog must eat, and eat well. Often, too.

Exhibits A and B. While the evidence seems irrefutable,

I believe it to be circumstantial. I'd never eat from a plastic receptacle.

The penultimate* time I destroyed the cup my folks use to retrieve my food, my portions became noticeably smaller. While that was good news to the people at VCA Westboro (after they airlifted me onto the scale) to me, it fell into the criminal realm. Last time someone manhandled me like that, I made sure their back hurt, and good. However, that episode ended up with me being placed on lifetime probation from those particular canine accommodations.

Obviously, a jury should consider mitigating circumstances: in this case, hunger. However, said good man and woman seem to be unmoved.

Therefore, I'll simply have to eat right out of the bin. Case closed.

*Bonus intangible reward to those who do not need to look up the definition of penultimate. I'm far too ravenous to be your dictionary today.

Shark attack! See the video!

2012-01-27T20:56:00.001-05:00

It's usually not a good sign when you see something floating that's supposed to be swimming. So when Mom peeked into my sister's room yesterday and noticed her helium-filled, remote control shark cruising along the ceiling–with no one at the controls, she did a double-take.

Then, she collared the culprit. The evidence was all too obvious: body parts ripped off, torn, thrown carelessly around. "Tuck-errrr..."

Yep. I did it in a fit of pique. My sister's back at college, and the C-A-R was leaving, without me in it. After making my expected forlorn appearance at the window, I trucked up the stairs and headed right for the shark, intent on revenge.

Listen, I could have torn the thing to bloody bits. Instead, I made it a nice repair challenge for my handy sis. Let's see whether she's able to get that thing to fly again...I mean swim.

A dog wins the 2012 Caldecott!

2012-01-23T19:35:00.002-05:00

I've loved, lost and destroyed plenty of toys in my time, and no one thought to write a book about moi.
("Actually," says Mom, "I have...but no one's published it...yet.")

So I might be a tad jealous that a scruffy little pup is the subject of this year's Randolph Caldecott Award for the most distinguished American picture book for children.

However, my readers know me to be rather discerning when it comes to picture books, and dog books in particular. They must be honest. They must be extraordinarily well done. They must touch some part of my doggy soul.

Alas, dear reader, this book, while true enough in story, neither touches my soul or seems well done enough to merit this medal.

I like whimsical, expressive artwork and appreciated it in The Hello, Goodbye Window, for which Raschka won the Caldecott in 2006. But I don't like sloppy. The Caldecott committee chair called the illustrations "deceptively simple." I'm not deceived: many of the illustrations are not simple. The ones that look simple, however, are brilliant. The others...well...are sloppy.

Daisy is adorably portrayed in her scruffiness (although I of course am far more handsome), yet I am surprised the book's creator was happy with the panels in which Daisy sinks miserably into the family couch. I was confused by the depiction of Daisy's human—she looked different each time she was portrayed.

The story itself was fine: dog gets ball, dog destroys ball, dog gets new ball. Best wishes to Daisy, but it's not a book I can really chew on.

And in the best actor category, canine, that is...

2012-01-15T20:48:00.000-05:00

One of BB Simon's crystal-encrusted leather collars.
I could rock that look.

Let's be practical: just what would I do with a globe, golden or otherwise? Plus, the only films I've ever starred in are those shaky old home videos. (Anyone interested in Hex Bug Horror, starring moi?) I mean, if the Blair Witch Project worked out, well...

Anyway, The Hollywood Reporter has the scoop on the Golden Collar Awards, to be designed by BB Simon of Newport Beach and given out next month by Dog News Daily. The categories:

Best Dog in a Theatrical Film
Best Dog in a Foreign Film
Best Dog in a Direct-to-DVD Film
Best Dog in a Reality Television Series
Best Dog in a Television Series

Check out THR's Oscar Dog Showdown photo gallery for more scoop. Or, better, yet, Hex Bug Horror.

Nominees will be announced Wednesday. Look for a surprise entry.

Take me out to the...hockey rink? And pass the poetry, please

2012-01-10T19:30:00.002-05:00

Now here's an event to rival any "Take Your (son, daughter, pet) to Work Day": watch the Worcester Sharks with your humans! It's called Pucks and Paws, it raises funds for the Worcester Animal Rescue League, and it's happening Jan. 15 in Worcester (I would have called it Pucks and Pups, for the assonance, or better yet, Pups and Pucks, putting the more important part first, but no one asked me).

Not sure of the definition of assonance? Apparently, you haven't brushed up on your poetry lately. Assonance is when a vowel sound is repeated in a nearby word, enough to make you sit up and take notice. That's why Pucks and Pups rolls off the tongue much more easily than Pucks and Paws. Did you notice anything about the repeated first consonant in those two words? Yep, it's the p. So when consonants are repeated, that's called alliteration. Even though Pucks and Paws contains alliteration, it's just not as pleasing as Pucks and Pups. Alliteration and assonance=awesomeness.

Back to the game. It's at 3 p.m. against Syracuse and promises to be a riot! Contact the Sharks office: www.sharksahl.com or 508-929-0500. $15 for humans, $10 for dogs, with $5 of every dog ticket donated to the Worcester Animal Rescue League. It's sponsored by VCA Animal Hospitals (a shout out to Dr. Schettino in Springfield). You can even get a discount on a pet-friendly hotel. And read some poetry before bed. For the right active vibe, I recommend A Dazzling Display of Dogs by Betsy Franco. There's a whole bunch of alliteration for you. Test after the game.

Happy 99th, Great-Grandma!

2012-01-09T19:28:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday, dear Great-Grandma!

My Italian great-grandma is 99 years old today, and going so strong she could stop me in my tracks—and that's saying something, especially considering that she is extremely teeny.

Great Grandma has long been fond of dogs. For example, worried that I might catch cold here in the northern regions, she sent away for a splendid shearling coat in which I look downright fashionable. She wonders why I don't visit more often and worries that I'm not being fed properly. In short, she dotes on me.

What a woman!

Wave a bright orange flag with HunterGuard

2012-01-08T17:57:00.001-05:00

Scientists say that exercise helps squeeze the creative juices, and so it was that I had Brilliant Brainstorm #237 today after my woods tromp.

We smell (well, some of us do) and see lots of deer in the town forest, so we're familiar with the flags of their tails. So I got a bit spooked when I learned that a hunter mistook a woman and her dog for a deer, with disastrous results. I checked out my tail. It's long. It's white. And I hold it proudly high in the air. (Though, let's face it, not as high as a deer does. I mean, I'm tall, but...)

Mom wore her orange cap today, and later we ran into my friend's human, also sporting an orange hat, and I thought about my tail. I also thought about the snug knitted scarf that hugs a tree in my backyard, the result of my sister's yarn-bombing. Have you heard of this phenomenon? There's nothing violent about it; in fact, it's rather cozy.

A knitted cozy for a hemlock.

Here's the basic idea: knitted tail cozy.

Being fitted. Believe me, it took two...and more.

So here's my idea: cozies for dog tails, made up in hunting orange! They could be knitted, they could be fleece, they could be adjustable, etc. I'd call them HunterGuard. They keep you safe, warm, and make a fashion statement, all at the same time. But wait, there's more...

The finished product would 1. Be finished and
2. Not consist of Mom's cashmere scarf.

I'm on Facebook—check it out!

2012-01-04T21:44:00.000-05:00

Well, sort of. My photo is on Facebook, in Wellesley Books' compilation of dog photos from their newsletter. Once upon a time, I had the honor of being Dog of the Week, although I like to think of it as a more permanent title.

Anyway, take a look. I'm the handsome one. When you get to the album, click on my thumbnail for the full effect.

Out with the old! In with the new!

2011-12-31T21:23:00.001-05:00

With no New Year's Eve party to attend, I decided to perform the canine equivalent of cleaning out one's sock drawer. I took stock of all of my gear—my restraining gear, that is.

So that left out the costumes, the coats, the various shearling throws, the collection of beds, the toys, the bones, the various gates people futilely erect to restrain dogs in homes and cars: in short, all of the essential accoutrements of the modern pampered pup.

I've already cleaned out, mind you. But more had to go. The frayed green collar and leash that came in 1998 with Sparky went in the car, for emergencies such as our recent rescue of a lost lab. Ribbon-like leashes, fine for a picture-perfect dog like him, somehow don't work for me: off to my neighbor Elliott. Harnesses that I have Houdini-d out of went to those with lesser squirming abilities. I kept my party collar, optimistically purchased by Mom, worn once with its matching leash before I did a major chomp on it, perhaps 30 seconds into the party (see below).

My sister plans to make a belt out of this royally-destroyed leash.

Too bad. I could sport the collar, sans leash, at another party—perhaps next New Year's? Keep me in mind, and best wishes for a properly outfitted 2012.

Rockin' around—more like into—the Christmas tree

2011-12-29T12:56:00.000-05:00

Thought I'd be writing this post from the cozy, friendly confines of Southboro Kennels, one of my go-to vacation spots, but Mom's sick: vacation cancelled. So instead, I'm sprawled in the sun, having bumped my sister from her bed onto the floor to get some precious VST: valuable sun time.
While I'm soaking in essential Vitamin D, let me entertain you with a recap of my holiday adventures:

1. Christmas morning madhouse: first, I grabbed some antlers, presumably donated by one of Santa's reindeer, from my Christmas stocking and ran upstairs with the contraband. Then, I raced back down to insinuate my nose into every package, attempted to untie the ribbon on a box containing a cashmere sweater for Mom and generally wreaked havoc as my face-plants resulted in several assaults on the Christmas tree with gift bags on my face. Hey, they should put some eyeholes into those things!

2. Morning madhouse, part II: In which I learn to protect the house from whizzing Hexbugs. My sister, much like Pandora, unleashed these horrid things and set them about on the floor, whenceupon I went into high-alert siren mode: Ah-woooo-gah! Ah-woooo-gah! Ah-woooo-gah! Ah-woooo-gah! I skittered away from them in a kind of hypnotized dance, and when it was clear that I might have a coronary, they were removed. However, I have learned their ways and have been stalking them. Next, I will pounce, with sure results. If only Pandora had a faithful hound, the world would have been rid of such horrible evils.

3. Speaking of creatures that I will not allow to coexist with moi, my sister has ensconced a gigantic shark in her room, which she periodically wakes, makes airborne, and attempts chase in true sister-brother tormenting fashion. Lucky for her I just had my nails clipped, because just one swipe from me is all it will take to bring it down, forever.

If you'd like a hound companion who's likely to be just as much fun (and smart) as I, check out Moose, at my old place, Buddy Dog Humane Society. He's super handsome and would bring extra life (and exercise) into your home, ensuring a very Happy New Year!

Wellesley Books dog-shopping

2011-12-22T21:31:00.001-05:00

Santa wouldn't leave me out, would he?

Handy for all those favors I've too often demanded.


For the Willy Loman-type pup.

Popped into Wellesley Books, hoping to catch a glimpse of my old pal Alison Morris, now of Scholastic Book Clubs, who had stopped by for a bit. Instead of pats and praises, then, I did some serious looking around for dog-themed gifts.

Mom liked the retro look of the Good Dog! Christmas stocking, but I already have a stocking, likely to be filled with coal, for good I am not. She picked up some thank-you notes engraved with a classy print of a foxhound and we both laughed at the tiny dog tie. We then paused before an impressive display of dog books, nicely faced out to feature their handsome covers. Someday, I'll be on one of those.

My photo here someday.

Born to run...and then to sleep

2011-12-18T10:59:00.000-05:00

Proper rest is important during the busy holiday season.

'Tis the season to be racing around: twice in two weeks I've escaped from my handlers and taken off. It's something in the air, I guess. First time was a rainy night when I smartly took advantage of Mom and Dad, turned their supposed knowledge about me evading raindrops at all costs on its head, and scooted out into the drizzly dark, leading them on a wild Tucker chase. Second escape happened because of a wardrobe malfunction, but the result was the same: room to roam—in this case the hundred acres of the Hunnewell Woods.

Both me and my predecessor, Sparky, were born to run: he, the classic Dalmatian, to race alongside coaches and later, Mom; and moi, built to run over, under and through tangled underbrush, over downed trees, across creeks and wherever a scent takes me. Bottom line: once loosed upon the world, we're near impossible to catch. Come when called? Why?

This morning I dutifully walked on my walk. Then I came home, raced around, lifted two freshly-baked blueberry-raspberry buttermilk muffins from behind the mixer-cooling rack barricade, consumed them in the privacy of the living room, then claimed a sunny spot on Dad's favorite chair.

Seven swans a-swimming, and a nice juicy Christmas bone

2011-12-17T10:21:00.001-05:00

A juicy bone thrills my soul right to the marrow.

Don't know exactly which day of Christmas it is, but I saw seven swans swimming in Morses Pond yesterday, and for once they didn't try to attack me. When I arrived home, I received another early Christmas gift: a delicious, juicy bone from Castor and Pollux, which Mom obtained at Tilly's, her favorite store on earth. Tilly's is located at the crest of the aptly-named Bacon Street, which I often traverse, and while I've never found bacon, I have often discovered chicken bones and other delectable treats deemed dangerous by my family. The ban on such foodstuffs seems to necessitate opening my capacious jaws, peering inside the deep recesses and retrieving said foodstuffs.

However, if one goes the legitimate way and purchases said juicy bone, one cannot expect one's canine to wait until Christmas.

Doggone gifts for your pampered beast: gift guide no. 1

2011-12-12T17:27:00.001-05:00

Alert and ready to go with my new martingale and collar.

Santa came early this year, because I've been so especially...stubborn. I'm loving my gift of a super-duper, custom-made (Bob matched the leather to my coloring) martingale collar and leash set. It finally stopped raining, so I could model it to its (and my) best advantage. Check out Bob's website at http://www.handcrafteddogcollars.com/ for super stuff for your favorite pet, who you'd prefer not to have take off unattended (although running after your pet would be a good way for you humans to burn off those holiday calories).

Treats from Lands' End.

So, dog-walking gear: check. Now, for feeding the tum. I like a good Christmas bone, but for treats, these organic pumpkin-nutmeg dog treats ($10) from Oliver Bentleys Barking Bakery in Savannah, made specially for Lands' End, look scrumptious. Being a Southern boy, I'm partial to that kind of baking. And while I'm more a mackintosh and Wellies guy, less a cable-knit sweater dude, I can appreciate the Irish-inspired jumper (that's Brit for sweater, natch) in festive dark red ($39.50), also from LE.

Pottery Barn's painted pillows are too narrow to fit my long legs, but that's OK. I"ll just leave my muddy imprint on our white sofa someday.

And for resting the head: check out these precious pillows from Pottery Barn ($35-$39) that just invite your pup to jump on the couch for a charming double portrait.

Next up: a dog's nose view of the fun gifts at Wellesley Books. I don't have to shop virtually there; for some reason, they let me in (and treat me like a king)!

Life, death, hounds and haiku: my take on two dog books

2011-12-06T18:13:00.001-05:00

Celebrate the dog
In poetry, art and song:
Please do so with verve.
—Tucker

I eagerly looked forward to The Hound Dog's Haiku and Other Poems for Dog Lovers. The team of Michael J. Rosen and one of my favorite illustrators, Mary Azarian, should be a winning combination.

However, I should have realized the task of using that meditative poetic form on a canine is something like putting together Mom and T'ai Chi: some things just don't go together, at least not in this volume. Mom's a fan of Rosen's The Cuckoo's Haiku and Other Birding Poems, but this collection just doesn't capture the uniqueness of the dog. I thought the rather abstract poems could almost could have been written about any creature.

For example, the Bluetick Coonhound's poem describes the dog resting in a straw-filled house. OK, but the creature really could be anything—a rabbit, say. The notes that Rosen provides do explain his thinking around the poems, but for me, and for Mom, they just weren't doggy enough. I'd like to see the pawing at the bedding, the settling down, the getting up again to rearrange the stuffing, the circling around to tamp things down just right, and maybe the big sigh when that perfect ratio of stuffing to dog is achieved. Most of the other poems fell short for me. Too bad.

A pet's death is just about the worst thing in the world, and I thought nothing could match Cynthia Rylant's Dog Heaven. That book was so true that it made Dad cry after Sparky died. But Mom and I both approved of Barbara Walsh's Sammy in the Sky (though we don't love the title), illustrated by Jamie Wyeth. Sammy's a hound who's lucky enough to love and be loved: he's "the best hound dog in the whole world."

Now, you might think I could disagree with that statement, but I know that to a child, their dog is the best. That's the way it should be. And it's OK to grieve when that best-loved creature is gone. Jamie Wyeth's paintings add much beauty and emotion to this story. Paws up.

Santa Paws is coming to town: a Buddy Dog fundraiser

2011-12-05T21:00:00.001-05:00

I've barely digested my turkey, and the packages are piling up like a UPS warehouse. It's crazy. With all of the activity, I've been demanding Milk-Bone tolls from the UPS and FedEx drivers, in addition to the usual extortion from my favorite USPS driver, B.T. B.T. only delivers my treats, not my mail, so there's no conflict of interest.

Last week, a FedEx guy who was woefully untrained just didn't get the hint. He was stopped at a light; I heard his truck. I immediately and purposefully plopped, across the road from his open door. He looked at me, startled. I pointed my nose at the place where he should deliver the treat. Nothing arrived. I pointed again. And again. I mean, did the guy not understand my sign language? He must either have been exhausted, out of Milk-Bones, or new on the job. Finally, to appease me, Mom threw a treat at the appointed spot, the light changed, and off we all went.

The aptly-named Moose needs a home. Sooo handsome!

Fortunately, Santa would never be caught short-Milk-Boned. So on December 10 from 10-3, head on over to have your holiday portrait taken at the Blue Amrich photo studio, 444 Great Road, Acton, to benefit Buddy Dog Humane Society, to which I am ever grateful. Blue Amrich specializes in equine, canine, and yes, feline photography. Call 978-264-4444 to book an appointment, or just walk in. Sleeping Bear Jewelry will have its pet-themed necklaces, charms and more available, with 20 percent of proceeds going to Buddy Dog.

Speaking of Buddy Dog, check out this super handsome guy (could he be as handsome as moi?) who's at Buddy Dog right now, ready for adoption. Let me tell you, foxhounds make great companions. Just be prepared to train all of your delivery people to toss Milk-Bones in the right direction.

Count your blessings, and Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-24T15:17:00.000-05:00

While I forlornly chewed on an ancient bone, my folks sauntered off to the country to catch a bit of the Norfolk Hunt Club's annual Thanksgiving Day hunt. The pageantry! The rural setting! The glorious colors! The sound of the bugle! The baying of the hounds! They went on and on about this wondrous event, rather than counting their blessings that they have moi, a genuine foxhound, right here in their own home.
In fact, one would think they have had quite enough of hound baying, with no need to go somewhere else to hear it.

Showing off my stuff.

Last week Mom was threatening to send me off to the club's kennels, somehow forgetting that they most likely wouldn't have me. Who knows what I did: she was mad. "You'll have to fight for your food with dozens of other dogs! You'll have to sleep on the floor! And if it rains, you'll still have to go outside!" Eventually, she simmered down, when she realized how lucky she is that I'm part of the family.

That could be me, right at the front.

So just to show you all that I could run, right along with those other pups, I'm posting a pic of me in full swing. Also one of the hunt, because even though I didn't get to go, it does sound pretty special.

X-rays show I swallowed something I shouldn't have

2011-11-18T09:36:00.001-05:00

I'm now feeling well enough to go on regular walks.

You know things aren't good when the vet opens up a discussion of your physical health by saying, "If you have unlimited funds..."

What Dr. Wolfus was suggesting was that me and Mom head up to Tufts Veterinary Medical Center, get me an emergency ultrasound, and find out just what that lumpy thing is in my belly. Or, we could wait and see if it's merely an upset tum.

Because it was bad enough getting wrestled onto the table to have a couple of x-rays, plus being made to have my weight checked (a svelte 84 lbs, in case you were wondering), we decided to wait. Plus, it was our first time seeing Dr. Wolfus, who in spite of his scary name, is exceedingly kind, gentle, and needless to say, given that I can't imagine a more difficult patient, patient.

I thought back to see which delicacy might be causing such distress. People do toss the most delicious, yet inappropriate, foodstuffs on the ground. On Sunday, I was trotting about in Wellesley Square and snuffled something under some leaves. It smelled so great that I didn't even look to see what it was. Mom immediately opened my alligator-like toothed hinges, one jaw in each hand, and looked deep inside. Nothing—already gone.

So neither of us knows what exactly I consumed. We're waiting for the radiology report. Keep your paws crossed that it's nothing too serious.

Update: All is well, and I am heading back toward full beastliness. Thanks goodness!

Posh new dog collar, leash and more on the way —just for moi!

2011-11-16T20:05:00.000-05:00

"You may have extra hardware," warns a slip of paper on those put-it-together yourself sorts of things. Well, I do. Lots and lots of extra collars, leashes, harnesses that either are worn out, don't fit well, or Tucker-escapable. That's not including the so-called chew-proof stuff that I chewed through long ago.

Is this guy sneering at my hardware? His isn't so great, either.

So Mom sent an SOS to Bob over at Handcrafted Dog Collars in good ole North Carolina, not far from my birthplace in the sunny South (Carolina, that is). Bob is plain old fun to talk to and got some laughs out of my doggone behavior. He even spent two days trying to think up a new design that would suit a stubborn hound like moi, before he realized it was an impossible task. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has been designed, built, thought up, dreamed, nightmared, that would in any way blunt my signature quality.

If I'm going to be stubborn, Mom figured, I might as well do it in style. And if you looked at my photo a couple of posts ago, I am over-hardwared. Prong collar, recommended by Elaine Stern, partly because a leash on a regular collar slips right off my slender little head, handsome though it is. Radio collar, also recommended by Elaine, for my famous stubbornness. Then, the collar that holds my tags. Too much stuff.

Bob is going to make something that goes just perfectly with my awesome coloring—dark saddle tan with black accents. Quite the step up from my mismatched gear. He makes everything himself in Wilmington and recently was putting together something fancy out of alligator leather for some lucky pup. He can do stingray, ostrich, shark, but I'm fond of beef, so I'm good with the cowhide. Thanks to Bob, not only will I be safe and comfy, I'll be stylin'.

Another pet-people book? Pitooey to the plethora!

2011-11-09T16:53:00.000-05:00

I'm a contemplative kind of guy and don't do puppy cute.

You know that the genre exploring the dog-human bond from the human standpoint needs to be over when even I say, "Enough!" That's how I felt when I read reviews of Jill Abramson's book, The Puppy Diaries, so that while her tale may be perfectly fine, and I'm sure very sweet, I just can't take any more.

Apparently, Bruce McCall feels the same way. In the Nov. 14 New Yorker, in a Shouts & Murmurs column titled Pet Books Proliferate, McCall takes off on a quote from Abramson's book and explores people's deep relationships with a special earthworm, a withered spider plant, and an extremely cute potholder. All meet a sad, but touching end.

Now, I'm fascinated by science's attempts to demystify the canine psyche. I'm all for research. But no more cutesy memoirs, please. However, don't you think there's room for a book exploring the canine-human bond, from the canine perspective? I certainly do.

Boot camp: brutal, but effective

2011-11-07T17:10:00.001-05:00

Grateful? I don't know, but my profile is awesome.

"It's like Cesar Millan came to Wellesley and worked a miracle!" Mom squealed. Now, Mom is prone to exaggeration, so I must tell you that while Cesar the Great did not show up at our door, he's got an unofficial East Coast counterpart.

I was the dog who wouldn't go. I wouldn't go forward, I wouldn't go backward. Tons of products exist to keep dogs in check. But what was the answer to get me to go? Mom despaired while I ruled.

The answer turned out to be Elaine Stern of The Grateful Dog (there's a misnomer!) Elaine doesn't come with a camera crew, and you don't have to submit audition videos to validate that you're a genuine worst case. Having known me from her puppy training classes, Elaine didn't need any proof of my stubborness. In fact, she had probably been expecting Mom's frantic pleas for some time now.

Given that Elaine's been visiting over the last month, putting me through my paces, and with Mom trying (valiantly, but not so successfully) to follow up, I've been exhausted. Hence, my less frequent posting. Frankly, if it weren't for the call of the food bowl, some days I would have rather stayed in bed. Dad, as always, remained on neutral ground, wisely staying out of the process.

As part of my training, Elaine took note of lots of things: the flipped-up couch cushions, my eating habits, my weight, my sleeping places. Among other keen observations, she felt I was a bit tubby. "He's not in any shape for hunting right now," she said, not that I would dream of it. "He wouldn't get very far." She did, however, approve of my beds, all of them: Serta Perfect Sleeper, double; Sealy Posturepedic, single; armchair, large. "Big dogs need to be off the floor."

As a result of boot camp, I now condescend to an afternoon walk in my very own neighborhood. Before, a steak could have been on the front steps, the door open all the way, and I would have just looked askance while lolling in the front hall. Now, I get up and head out, like a regular dog.

Too bad Mom didn't make those videos. Because if I had been on TV, I bet I would have my own driver right now, taking me wherever I wanted to go. No walking required.

Wishing you the ghoul-est Halloween ever!

2011-10-25T08:06:00.000-04:00

AaaaaBooooooo!

Obviously, I do not need a costume to scare anyone, and that's a good thing. Sparky's closet full of costumes are all too small for me, anyway.
I checked out Wellesley Books' display of Halloween goodies. I wasn't so scared of the monster, but I did ponder which famous person might want to look like me.

English lab rescued on Brook Path!

2011-10-21T18:52:00.001-04:00

Without me, the rescue never would have happened. After a leisurely stroll 'round the athletic fields, Mom and Dad expected me to just pop back into the car. When I didn't respond like an automaton, they finally noticed: a cute English black lab was nosing along the road next to the Brook Path.

Intrepid Mom, treats in hand, went to investigate. No collar, no people. The pup loved the Milk-Bones, but then dashed up to whomever was walking down the path. None of them was his owner.

Wellesley Police said they'd send the animal control officer, but meanwhile, Mom was getting nervous. The pup dashed over to a car, and the driver, incredibly, happened to have a leash. Not only was this driver well-equipped, she knew her pups. She immediately tied it, martingale style, around the dog's neck, and we were all set. Mom got the OK from WPD to bring him to the station.

I did my part to clear our way, outfitting our vehicle with my personal emergency siren. Ah-woooo! Ah-wooooo! The dog didn't mind, and I liked the company. Our time together was too brief. Just as we pulled up to the station, Animal Control Officer Sue Webb was pulling out to meet us. She checked for a microchip, and voila! I imagine the pup is already reunited with its owner. Maybe we'll run into each other sometime, under less exciting circumstances.

A shout-out to the lady with the leash: thanks so much! When I went to return it, I couldn't help but notice your stunning dog sculpture and adorable pond. If you need any fish, let me know. I have lots!

Note to self: leave an extra leash in the car.

Sunday in the park with George, Bella, Dude, Linda and more

2011-10-16T21:53:00.000-04:00

Dude's name doesn't quite live up to his substantial size.

Had a fab day with my pal Bella at Borderland State Park: a gorgeous spot for dogs and their humans. I tried the agility course and beasted it; met a Great Dane named Dude who made me feel like a Chihuahua; and had my nails trimmed by the fabulous Linda of Classie Canines of South Easton.

Linda faced up to my beastliness and with a couple of helpers, completed my mani-pedi in no time (after she suggested Mom stroll across the lawn). What a pro!

The fabulous Linda of Classie Canines.

Given that the last time I had my nails done, the vet staff only could manage half before Mom called a halt to the painful process, and the time before that, I was trussed into a straitjacket, I'd trust her not only with my paws, but for playtime and boarding, too—they do it all.

Bella zipped right through the chute on the agility course.

Paws up for a Borderland state park fundraiser!

2011-10-15T16:58:00.000-04:00

Is that a halo around my head? Wow.

I'm all set for an outing Sunday, Oct. 16 with my friend Bella at Borderland State Park. Mom promises exercise, a meet and greet, and lots of treats—all for a good cause.

I'll be wearing my new radio collar, thanks to Elaine Stern, my personal trainer. Her business is called The Grateful Dog, and while Elaine sure is effective, it's Mom who's grateful, not me. I remain recalcitrant at my core; however, under Elaine's tutelage, Mom sure is challenging my alpha role. More on that experience later.

Paws in the Park is a fundraiser for the Animal Protection Center of Southeastern Massachusetts in Brockton, a bit out of my geographic range, but a worthy organization nonetheless. Borderland, in Easton, has tons of acres, a pond around which to stroll, and a stunning mansion.

Another organization dear to my heart is Coonhound Companions, which is the weekly cause at Be the Change For Animals. Check it out--it promotes adoption of dogs just like me! And we know just how special I am. Just check out my halo.

No Sox? No Yanks? No problem!

2011-10-14T19:45:00.001-04:00

I've been going mano a mano with Mom over where to walk. I'm winning.

Nothing to watch? How about this series? It's me vs. Mom. Will I or won't I go for an afternoon walk? Tune in at 4 p.m. every day to see the titanic struggle.

The standings:
Me 3-1 .750
Mom 1-3 .250

The issue is not walking; it's the location. Rather than simply take off from home, I really prefer a stroll in Wellesley Square in the p.m., similar to the Italian passeggiata—you know, the late afternoon stroll common in Italy.

I could live on sausage and meatballs, Locatelli cheese, and prosciutto. So why not adopt the noble tradition of the passeggiata? It fits my needs perfectly, according to Fodor's: "During the week, the passeggiata marks the end of the workday and offers a moment of sociability before the family dinner...The most important thing, it seems, is simply seeing and being seen (vedere e farsi vedere)."

Exactly. See and be seen.

Given how famous I am, who am I to deny my public?

Barkitecture: dream doghouses

2011-10-05T20:57:00.000-04:00

I've never been in the doghouse, literally, anyway, so I can't compare, but the doghouses showcased in Austin, TX last weekend for Barkitecture 2011 look like they'd make some pretty cool hangouts. I wouldn't want to swap them for my real home, with its choice of single or double beds, but they would be great in a man-cave kind of way.

Best-in-show of the fundraiser for Austin-area animal rescue groups was designed by none other than canine guru Cesar Millan, whose modern structure included a Zen garden and latticed resting area.

Another home had a rooftop hangout carpeted with synthetic grass, all over a shady spot sheathed in peekaboo siding. Rather than frou-frou homes reflecting an '80s sensibility with the big hair that went with it, these sleek structures are more attuned to the needs of the modern dog.

Speaking of needs, I especially liked the sunken pool, conveniently filled with tennis balls, provided for a break during the house tours. However, I could do without the pig.

Yap it up today at Woofstock 2011—and benefit Buddy Dog Humane Society

2011-09-30T19:34:00.000-04:00

I'm deeply in debt to Buddy Dog Humane Society, and so is my family—they adopted not one but two incredible pups from the Sudbury shelter.

Buddy Dog saved me, bringing me up from South Carolina and holding on to me even after I was adopted and returned for being too, well, houndish. Word is I knocked over a small child and ate her sandwich. Too true; I was a baby then, young, undisciplined, strong and often ravenous.

Buddy Dog also saved Sparky, a stunning Dalmatian who had three owners in one year and found a lifetime home with my family. Without Buddy Dog, we'd both have been far from the loving home in which we, happily, found ourselves (see my story on the Long Ears blog at coonhoundcompanions.com).

We're just two of the many, many happy tales resulting from the shelter's 50 years of existence. A celebration of its half-century and a fundraiser for the shelter, Woofstock will be held tomorrow, Oct. 1, from 11-4 at the Hudson Elks Pavilion. Info: 978-443-6990. Admission to Woofstock is free for dogs (of course) and children, $5 otherwise. Hightail it over!

Star pups of the big screen: the inside scoop

2011-09-26T20:34:00.000-04:00

Does anyone remember Rin-Tin-Tin? The canine film star of the 1920s and 30s, who reportedly had his chance at an Oscar snatched away because of his canine status, is the subject of a book being published tomorrow by Susan Orlean, which recently was excerpted in The New Yorker–check out this blog post on the Aug. 25 piece.

Movie star or no, I'm not a fan of German Shepherds, to put it mildly. In fact, whenever I see one, I let out a nonstop alarm bay that gives the same effect as our shouting smoke detector—you can't wait for it to stop, and your ears hurt like crazy afterwards.

I actually am crazy about dog books, although the subtitle, The Life and the Legend, seems to amplify things a bit much. Then again, at that time, famous dogs like Rinty were trumpeted in the press, feted and fawned on everywhere they went. Plus, he's still remembered after all these years, though I guess the TV show helped. (Of course, the original Rinty didn't star in those episodes.)

Turns out the Shepherd star in Harry Potter and the Prisoner from Azkaban isn't faring as well as Rinty. Berry, who played Padfoot, is up for adoption in the UK with German Shepherd Dog Rescue. He's being fostered right now, and I hope he soon has a home.

Speaking of pet adoption, take a look at my mom's blog post on how she made one of the smartest decisions of her life by adopting moi. It can be found at the Long Ears Blog, published by Coonhound Companions, a site that promotes adoption of hounds like me. Of course, none could possibly be as handsome, or as smart, but still...all pups deserve a loving home. I have to admit that Olivia, who graces Coonhound Companions' home page, is very, very lovely, and brilliant, I'm sure. She sure is a lucky girl, too—truly saved from a horrible fate.

So the next time I see a Shepherd in my neighborhood, I'll just pretend that my alarm baying is really just a shout-out for pet adoption. It's a good thing.

The story of Balto—highs and lows

2011-09-20T21:07:00.000-04:00

I'm crazy for dog stories, but I have high standards. One of the best in a long time is about that megahero, Balto, by virtuoso nonfiction author Meghan McCarthy. Do I need to say that Balto is one of the dogs on the sled team that brought life-saving serum to Nome, Alaska, to stem a diptheria epidemic? And that the route is now immortalized in the Iditarod race each year?

The Incredible Life of Balto is unique not only because McCarthy can take detailed historical info and distill it to its fascinating essence, but also because McCarthy doesn't leave Balto simply basking in glory. She reveals the Black Beauty like story behind this hard-working dog: neglected and relegated to a sideshow. But, like Black Beauty, Balto finds loving care toward the end of his life.

Thanks, Meghan, for telling the whole tale, and making it so special. Even though I'm not-so-secretly very, very afraid of Siberian huskies, I can appreciate Balto and his team's dedication. Next time I see the husky who lives in my neighborhood, I'll make sure he hears about it. So will everyone else, because my alarm bay is so loud, I wouldn't be surprised if my sound waves traveled all the way to Alaska.

Swellesley moms strut stuff in style

2011-09-15T13:45:00.000-04:00

Owing to my stubbornness—or, putting it more tactfully, my independent thinking—I ended up taking my morning walk more mid-morningish, and found myself far from my usual route.

Here I am, resting my trapezius muscles.

So that's why, at about 10:30, rounding one of the fields at Sprague, I came upon the Mom Brigade. About a dozen strong, I suspected this wasn't your usual moms-with-strollers outing. First of all, it's Swellesley, and our moms are fit, smart and highly organized. All looked very, very purposeful.

Being attracted to strollers, as well as the treats and stuffed animals typically found inside them, I stopped to review the parade. Finally condescending to move on, I looked back when I heard music. Specifically, the tune was "Old McDonald."

'Twas a most melodious rendition. I tilted my head to confirm. That's when I saw them: Moms, strollers within reach, exercise bands threaded through one of the fences, singing, and rowing in time to the music. Exercising their trapezius muscles, working on their vocals, and entertaining their children at the same time! That kind of multitasking is to be admired, indeed.

They were so energetic that I became exhausted, and I needed to flop on a stranger's lawn to recuperate.

Canines and Cocktails on through September

2011-09-12T18:41:00.000-04:00

Formal dress is optional.

This just in: the puppy happy hour (actually three hours!) has been so successful at the Wellesley College Club that it's being continued through this month, at least.

The patio scene.

I'm kind to all, even those who can't grab their own treats.

That's what I learned when I stubbornly insisted on visiting the patio this afternoon, even though Mom told me it wasn't Thursday, the traditional C&C meetup day. I wasn't the only one confused: I ran into my neighbor, Josie the beagle, who had exactly the same thought. Wish, and it will come.

So round up your humans. They'll need to bring their wallets for their treats; ours are on the house. See you Thursday!

Wild beast on the loose in Wellesley and Natick!

2011-09-08T20:24:00.000-04:00


It's a wild, wild world when I'm going at full tilt.

It's true. In violation of local bylaws, I was off-leash and not under voice control. (I should point out that I never have been under voice control, or any other control, for that matter. And let's be honest: we've all met tons of offenders like me). However, unlike many who simply are released intentionally, my liberty was obtained through guile and deceit (plus some nifty shimmying).

It happened like this: my all-too-generous cousins offered to take me for a walk, the rain having stopped and myself no longer in danger of melting. Unfamiliar with my restraining apparatus, they chose the simple collar and leash approach. I hid my glee, pretending not to notice their error.

Once we were underway, I wasted no time. I unveiled my Houdini impression, slipped the surly bonds of my collar/leash combo, and took off. I visited the Airedale down the street (she, poor thing, never ventures out of her fenced area) and investigated some choice scents emanating from a side yard. It was there, armed with treats proffered to them by a kind neighbor, that my cousins captured me.

That's what they think. It would have been awfully beastly of me to let them head home, hound-less. They would have felt terribly guilty. Not something I would worry about, but as I did detect a drop of rain, the call of my dry, warm, man cave was irresistible.

One fish, two fish, three fish—too many fish!

2011-09-06T20:09:00.001-04:00

Last year's babies. They're much larger now, and even prettier.

Big fish in a small pond: that's the case here. And the problem: they all are big, leaving barely any room for me to take a drink.

Remember Henry Huggins? Author Beverly Cleary's eponymous creation yearned for guppies—and he got them, jars and jars and jars of them. (He also wanted a dog, Ribsy, which is why this book is one of my favorite reads of all time.) Time for another definition: the adjective eponymous has to do with a person giving their name to something. So in this case, Henry Huggins is the title of the book and the name of the main character. Got it?

So the Huggins-like fish population explosion happened this way: Two years ago, we started with five small comet fish from Russell's Garden Center in Wayland. Last year, those five small fish had grown exponentially, and they produced more than 60 babies. We thought we gave most of them away, more than 40 three-inch babies to a friend with a big pond but hardly any fish.

On the lookout for fish at Morses Pond. Less colorful, but still fun to scare.

But, you know, a pond can be dark, and fish are excellent at hiding.

Of course, I knew there were more fish in there, but since I still had plenty of open water to lap, I didn't make a big deal of it.

Come spring, though, those babies—more than 20—surfaced, and now they are almost as big as their gigantic parents. They're also eating their way through plenty of expensive bags of Hikari Gold pellet food.

So if you need some fish, let me know. Gorgeous fish to a good pond only, within baying distance, so that would be Wellesley or Natick. I'll personally deliver them. Then, I'll go home and take a good long drink.

Want good luck? Say "rabbit, rabbit"

2011-09-01T20:55:00.000-04:00

Licorice's ears are almost as long as mine.

The superstition is that if you say "rabbit, rabbit," or something like that, on the first day of every month, as soon as you wake up, that you'll have good luck.

One great aspect of hounds is that we are friends to all animals, unless, of course, we are hunting them. I am quite fond of rabbits, domestic and wild.

So I've been hanging around our bunny cage, just getting ready, you know. The first day of the month comes, and instead of talking, I just give a long, loud (is there any other kind) bay directly into the bunny cage. Boy, did that perk up those long ears! Think that counts?

Got pheromones? Calming a Tucker-cane is a challenge

2011-08-29T20:06:00.001-04:00

I can go from mild

to wild, in no time at all.

I have to admit: I can be a little wild, especially when the temperature drops. I'm also sensitive, especially to thunderstorms, nail clipping, fireworks, etc, etc. So Mom consulted with the vet, who suggested a dog pheromone collar. It releases chemicals into the environment that are supposed to be the least invasive way to help calm an anxious pup. My nails are getting a bit long, and Mom wasn't about to let the groomer put the straitjacket on me again.

So Mom puts the collar on me, and because I've taken to sleeping in my sister's closet, she objects to the smell (it's scented, for humans, I guess...they can't smell the pheromones). I'm also preternaturally calm, to which Dad objects. [Definition of preternatural: beyond that which is normal, or natural. Calm is definitely not my natural state, unless I am asleep.]

It's unsettling and true: I'm almost comatose. I can barely make it out of the closet.

They put the collar away, but I do have a large nose, and of course I can still pick up on the chemical messages. So I'm calm. Then Hurricane Irene decides to head up the coast, and we lose power. Oh no—that means that Mr. Smoke Detector Man will announce the restarting of power. Mom worries about everything. Maybe she's the one who really needs the collar, I think.

I try the collar again. It works. But once the storm passes, my family just can't take the calm version of me. I'm just so incredibly...shall I say, boring? It's like Hurricane Irene being downgraded to a drizzle. So it's off with the collar.

Just in case the storm, whatever its formal name, wasn't exciting enough for you, I'm available to wreak havoc in your yard or home. Just call. I'll leave the pheromone collar at home.

Tales of devoted dogs and faithful friends

2011-08-26T10:17:00.001-04:00

Did you read the touching tale of the Navy SEAL dog who laid by his owner's coffin and heaved a huge sigh?

The story of Jon Tumilson, one of the 30 Americans heartbreakingly killed in Afghanistan, and his Labrador, Hawkeye, has to make everyone recognize the importance of the human-canine bond.

Two great children's books, Hachiko Waits by Leslea Newman, and Hachiko: The True Story of a Loyal Dog (and the movie, Hachi) tell the story of a pup who met his professor owner every afternoon at the Shibuya train station in Japan. After his owner died at work, the Akita waited at the train station, for 10 years, until his own death. A statue of Hachiko at the station commemorates the relationship.

We dogs are faithful, loyal, and smart. We remember. We wait. And we love our human families.

Morose, forlorn, or just so darn depressed?

2011-08-24T16:22:00.000-04:00

If I look forlorn/morose/depressed enough, will she call?

In missing my sister Golden Hair, newly off to college, I attempted to determine which word most nearly described my state of mind. In my last post on this topic, I used the word forlorn. But then it occurred to me: perhaps I actually am morose.

Upon consulting my dictionary, I find that morose means sullen and ill-tempered. Me? Never!
Depressed? "(of a person) In a state of unhappiness or despondency." Hmm. The dictionary does not include (of a dog), even a very smart one like me. So, I believe that my instinct to use forlorn was correct. Definition: pitifully sad and abandoned or lonely.

Ouch. It hurts.

Earthshaking news happened while I was sleeping

2011-08-23T18:22:00.000-04:00

Remember that adorable movie, While You Were Sleeping, starring Sandra Bullock as the subway token seller who saves the annoying rich guy from the train tracks, then pretends she's engaged to him? He wakes up from his coma, but she's fallen in love with his brother?

Well, that movie (called Coma Guy while a work in progress) was written by Dan Sullivan, my good pal. But I digress before I even begin.

Today's earthquake apparently was felt in Wellesley, though not by me. Sensitive though I am, I was, not surprisingly, sleeping at 2 p.m. Though something roused me, so that soon afterward, I demanded a ride in the car and a walk on the Brook Path.

Perhaps I did feel the quake. After all, it takes something really earthshattering to wake me out of a sound sleep.

College dropoff blues

2011-08-20T21:00:00.002-04:00

Why did she have to go off and leave me? Aren't I smart enough
to get into RPI?

I've got those dropoff blues. Bad. My sister's gone, off to begin her freshman year at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, NY. Great, great school, but the only animals they allow are fish (in a generous 20-gallon tank). Well, we have the fish, certainly, and I can swim, but somehow I don't think she has room in her triple for a 90-lb. male (although the floor is co-ed). That 20-gallon tank would be way too small, and much too uncomfortable, for me. And I'm all about comfort.

Here I am looking forlorn in my RPI red bandanna.

Good luck, sis! I will miss you tons.

xxxooxxxooo
PS. Can I have your room?

Partying it up at the Wellesley College Club

2011-08-18T21:17:00.000-04:00

Longest nose (and legs) brings new meaning
to "first come, first served."

Two dog birthday parties in Swellesley last night, and because it looked like there were No Dogs Allowed at the Wellesley Free Library (besides Mariah, the famous pet therapy dog and guest of honor), I pointed myself toward the Wellesley College Club.

Sandwich cookies = yum!

Thursday night soirees at the club have become a habit with the top dogs in town. Last night, Suzy celebrated her 15th birthday, and boy, was there a great spread, which was a good thing given that I had to share treats with so many folks. One human guest was going for the Oreo-type cookies when she was warned they were for dogs, only.

Happy Birthday to Suzy!

I tried to give Suzy my pickup line, but she took me literally—no, she didn't come here often. In fact, it was her first visit to Canines and Cocktails (Thursdays, 4-7). Still, she looked fetching in her birthday hat.

I helped myself to oodles of treats, and was thrilled when my friend Lucy showed up. Fashionably late, I might add. I didn't mind—it just added to her irresistible charm.

See how attentive Lucy looks? That's because she listens to her folks—most of the time. I'm saving the other photo of me being attentive and her zoning out, so I can use it on just the right occasion.

Enjoying a private moment with Lucy.

I made the cut! Now, vote me Boston's MVB—most valuable blogger!

2011-08-16T17:37:00.001-04:00

You'll put even more spring in my step if you vote for me!

Thrilled to see my blog on the list of finalists for CBS Boston's most valuable blogger. See my earlier post for the many, many reasons I consider myself tops. Voting's easy—just click on my badge or right here, and scroll down until you find Dreams du Dog. Click, and voila! you're done. It's easy as ABC, and alphabetical, too.

You even can vote every day if you like, until Sept. 9. Most votes wins, plus there's an editor's choice winner, so I'm rooting for both.

Many thanks, and whoever votes the most for me, wins, too—my voice baying on your voice mail. That will keep the telemarketers away! Now, what could be more valuable than that?

Nominate moi for Most Valuable Blogger!

2011-08-15T08:40:00.001-04:00

Nominate me for Boston's Most Valuable Blogger,
lifestyle/family category!
Check it out at http://boston.cbslocal.com/most-valuable-blogger/

OK, I might not be actually the most valuable, money or info-wise, but I certainly am entertaining!
Top reasons to vote for me:
1. I'm talented enough to write my own material.
2. I have tons of story ideas.
3. I am dedicated. 200 posts in two years.
4. My posts are educational. For example, my most popular posts have been Attention please: Can dogs eat edamame? (180 pageviews); Recalcitrant, obstinate, stubborn: defined (155 pageviews); and Carb loading: it's a good thing (145 pageviews).
5. My posts sometimes have a tinge of reader-satisfying gossip. Or readers wish they had. One of the most common searches that lands people on my blog is "p. allen smith personal life." For those of you who don't know, P. Allen Smith is the Southern garden design counterpart to Martha Stewart. And because he and I both are Southern gentlemen, I wouldn't dream of speculating.
6. I take faithful readers on a dizzying tour of how not to train your dog. Many people seem to find this information useful.
7. I am a poster pup, practically, for why it would be an excellent idea to adopt a hound. I'm fun, learned, and very, very handsome. Check out coonhoundcompanions.com for more reasons.
8. I have reviewed several pet hotels and therefore am a font of info on where to place your pup when you decided to abandon him or her for vacation. Better yet, take your pup with you!
9. Readers gain an inside view into the keen mind, determined will, and goofy personality that is mine.
10. I am very, very handsome. Have I mentioned that already?

Nominate me at: http://boston.cbslocal.com/most-valuable-blogger/ but hurry--today's the last day!

Meet Elliott from E.T., my new neighbor

2011-08-12T08:12:00.001-04:00

Reader challenge: find the dog in this photo.

Ok, Elliott here looks more like an E.T. than she should, but that's because she's a tiny, wiggly, fuzzy baby Portuguese Water Dog who would not stop wiggling for her photo. Also, it's impossible to see her face under all of that hair.

In fact, when she came over to introduce herself, I didn't quite understand she was a canine, and completely ignored her.

However, when Mom went over with a hand-me-down mat for Elliott's water bowl (given her breed, and her size, she prefers bathing in her water bowl), and came back smelling all puppy-ish, I was none too pleased. Not about the mat. Given my slobbery habits, it didn't begin to do the job in our home.

If my readers are confused about her name, here's the explanation: Somehow, the breeder thought Miss Elliott was a boy dog. Because our neighbors had already named her, Elliott she is.

Rescue dogs of 9/11

2011-08-11T07:24:00.001-04:00

The New York Times features gorgeous portraits of courageous rescue dogs, now retired, who worked to find victims of the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001.

Photographer Charlotte Dumas beautifully captures the nobility and dignity of these highly-trained canines who love their work.

Her book, Retrieved, which features these photos and more, will be published in September. Check out her website to learn more about her and her other work photographing dogs, wolves, horses and other fascinating animals. Her book can be preordered at www.theiceplant.cc

Water, water, everywhere... nor any drop to drink, but I tried

2011-08-10T12:08:00.001-04:00

Still salty. What's with that?

Not to go on and on about my fab vaca in Biddeford Pool, but I never could quite get the idea that the water had something different about it.

I'd taste the water at the big beach. Salty. The water at the little beach. Salty. The water in the tidepools. Salty. Island beach water. Salty.

What's the deal?

It was dry as a bone (and I know bones) that week in Maine, so last night's rain really gave me something to lap about. I know there's always the water dish, but for a hound, puddle water just has that certain je ne sais quoi.

To the lighthouse!

2011-08-07T21:37:00.001-04:00

Tammy Burnham and hound.

I was not invited on the boat ride to the Wood Island lighthouse off Biddeford Pool, so, pouting, I took the opportunity to catch up on some much needed sleep.

"It was a good thing, too," said Dad, eyeing the narrow, high, half-mile boardwalk that leads to the light.

Perhaps he recalled the day I nimbly leapt off the boardwalk flanking the northern part of Lake Waban, without quite thinking how I would get back up.

Pets of Wood Island Light.

Though I was not allowed, pets have been an important part of Wood Island history. Mom focused on photos of the hound cuddling with little Tammy's fog Burnham, herself the subject of a fascinating survival tale, and a pup, aptly named Sailor, who rang the lighthouse bell (and was pictured negotiating the swirly tower stairs). See pix of Sailor and read more about the light's history here.

A story of another talented pup is told in Lighthouse Dog to the Rescue by Angeli Perrow, about the springer spaniel of Maine's Owls Head light in the 1930s. Spot is credited with rescuing a mailboat by ringing the fog bell in a fearsome storm.

Thank goodness there are no lighthouses in Swellesley, because I just couldn't live up to such expectations. After all, I most likely would get wet in a storm, even equipped with a sou'wester, and that would be tragic.

P.S. Info from the Friends of the Wood Island Lighthouse, a super group who run tours and raise funds for the site's restoration. Check it out.

Help! I swallowed plastic wrap!

2011-08-06T21:09:00.002-04:00

This body packs a heap o' potential energy.

So, right up there with queries on whether dogs can eat edamame (you would not believe how many people have found my blog by asking that question) are queries on consuming plastic wrap.

Considering how smart we canines are, let us assume that most of us have mistakenly consumed said wrap. Presumably while it was covering something delicious.

In my case, the wrap covered a perfectly good turkey and cheese submarine sandwich that someone carelessly tossed away. It was, unlike many food items I have snagged, actually in the trash. (That Upper Crust pizza crust I found on a rock wall in Wellesley Square last week—mmm!)

Here's what happened. My head went in. Mom pulled it out. My head went in again. This time, before we got too Hokey-Pokey-ish, I came up with the goods. That Mom, though, she's fearless, even in the face of the Jaws of Death.

Like the rest of me, my teeth are large. And I am famous for my stubbornness. I clamped. She attempted to unclamp. Then, finding a bit of sandwich and wrap outside of the Jaws of Death, she pulled. I dug in my heels. She dug in hers. Plastic wrap stretches! I witnessed precious bits of sandwich being torn away, but I dared not open the Jaws for fear of losing more.

When this peculiar tug-o-sandwich finally ended, I got to keep half the sandwich and Mom had half. Very luckily for me, she ended up with most of the plastic wrap.

Speak up! I can't hear you!

2011-08-05T12:46:00.000-04:00

OK, Mr. Smoke Detector Man, it's war now. Mom is the original Mama grizzly, and once she gets going, there's no stopping her. Sort of the opposite of moi: once I get stopping, there's no starting me. The thing we do have in common: stubbornness.

War officially was declared when Mr. Evacuate! Evacuate! started shrieking last week—again. "Detector error in the dining room! Detector error in the dining room!" followed by high-decibel beeps. Of course, just like the boy who cried wolf, everyone ignored him. "Putting in these detectors was the worst mistake we ever made," intoned Dad.

But this time, Mr. Detector will get his comeuppance.

Mr. Smoke Detector Man: the bane of my existence.

This time, rather than calling the electrician, Mom dialed up FirstAlert. "We don't usually have any problems with that model number," said the nice customer service rep.

Well, we do. Major problems.Years of Mr. Detector screaming at us, usually at 2 a.m., has taken its toll on:
my psychological health; Dad's hearing; Mom's emotional health; my sister's tolerance level of all of us. We're fraying like an old sheet flying in a derecho (let me elucidate: that's a very dangerous, severe windstorm like the one that hit the Midwest last month).

"Is it normal for Mr. Smoke Detector to start talking on his own, when there's nothing wrong? When we've been vacuuming him regularly? When we change his batteries on schedule? When we keep replacing him?"

No, no, no, and no. It is far from normal, said the nice customer service rep.

"How about when he decides to test all of the alarms in the house, in turn, starting with the smoke one, then the carbon monoxide one, with the whole thing lasting about 10 minutes at ear-splitting levels? Is that normal?"

Assuredly not. So today, Mr. Detector Man is out, replaced by a new guy, gratis from First Alert. If only they'd take care of my psychiatry bills, too, we'd be all set. And then all of us might get some much-needed sleep. Here's hoping that the new guy only shouts when necessary, and that we never, ever hear what he sounds like.

Plenty of canines and cocktails at College Club

2011-08-03T07:00:00.002-04:00

Perfect evening at the club last week. The Wellesley College Club, that is. Checked out the treats, as well as the company, and both were fab. Big jars chock full o' special goodies there for the taking!

Mom said no to the giant bone, as well as the licorice-like twists, but indulged me in some organic kind of baked bone that turned out to be delicious.

Lots of dogs played on the terrace while their moms sipped fruity-looking drinks in tall glasses, nicely served by Charlene.

Among the guests: Wally, a big, shaggy griffon; Kelly, a miniature beagle; a cockapoo that danced very prettily around the treat table; and several others whom I'd love to meet again.

Be there: every Thursday in August, 5-7 p.m.

Ever seen a giant beagle? C'est moi, Tucker the Walker Foxhound, size Large

2011-08-02T17:17:00.001-04:00

Unless one happens to ride to hounds, my breed is not so well known north of the Mason-Dixon line.

So when people meet me for the first time (trust me, they remember the next time), their query often goes like this: "What kind of dog is that? Is that a Giant Beagle?"

However, my online fans can't seem to grasp my actual size. Mom's friend Judy says that I take a small picture. She is correct.

So when I snagged this pic of me off of my pet sitter's Facebook page (petsittingbyliz.com gets you there, if you click on More About Liz), I thought it might help those of you out there who are curious.

Do my paws look big enough in this picture?

On our Maine vacation, in fact, I violated boating regulations by sprawling my bulk across the entrance to a pier in South Freeport, and violated rules of human decency by blocking the entrance to Downfront ice cream on a blazing hot day on Peaks Island. However, I was not apprehended, given the well-known aphorism: Let sleeping dogs lie. They did.

And the rockets' red glare...is making me hide in my sister's closet

2011-08-01T20:47:00.000-04:00

Napping on the beach in Maine, exhausted from post-
July 4 fireworks. Fireworks, rockets, they're all the same to me: terrifying.

Cajoled Mom into taking me for an after-dinner walk tonight at Lilja Field in Natick. Here's how I did it: she thought we were using just our feet, but I made a u-turn at the sidewalk and performed a Plop O'Doom at the garage. Tired of the same old, same old, I wanted wheels, just to make things more interesting.

Here's the rub: we get to the field, and I can hear the whistle of rockets. Mom, busy parking or whatever, plus her hearing isn't that great, doesn't notice a thing. I'm cowering in the back, but a pup decided to check out the antiquity of my car, so I hop out for a meet-and-greet.

Then the rockets start going off like crazy. "It's like Cape Canaveral out there," says the pup's owner. While not quite the crowds that made it to the 321 area code to see the final space shuttle liftoff, there were a dozen or so people craning their necks.

I get that people want to have fun with rockets, but look, I barely made it through the Fourth of July. And I need exercise.

One good thing: it's August, so most people should have used up their fireworks by now. But don't all psychiatrists go on vacation in August? That's bad, because I could use some couch time.

Close our local post offices? No way!

2011-07-27T07:37:00.000-04:00

The PO is right across from Goldthwaite's and Pool Lobster.

Just back from charming Biddeford Pool, Maine, where the tiny local post office not only posts mail, but photos of its local pet population, with their names. It's perfectly situated opposite the general store, which along with a real estate office and gift shop, makes up the Pool's total commercial area.

Mail is important to me, especially the carriers who deliver it, and the treats they carry.

Fortunately, the Pool's PO is not on the U.S. Postal Service's list of potential closures, but I shudder to think that it might. I also love the PO at Babson College, and I shudder to think of the office at Boston College shuttered.

Lots of figures can be found on usps.com, such as the fact that letter carriers drive 4.1 million miles each day to deliver that precious mail, but no figures are given on how many dog treats they deliver, or the intangibles of how well they know their customers.

For example, I roused myself from sleep Monday afternoon and went for a walk. Bingo! There at the end of the street was my favorite letter carrier. "Tucker! I haven't seen you! What's the matter—too hot for you?"

I nodded and sat heavily at the truck's running board. "You're unbelievable," he astutely commented, and gave me several treats. Now that kind of goodwill is worth keeping our p.o.'s open, and our letter carriers gainfully employed.

Day tripping on Peaks Island, Maine

2011-07-25T16:48:00.001-04:00

A bit pricey, but it is a round trip ticket, and unless I could
channel Diana Nyad, wouldn't try swimming to the island.

I'm a fan of Casco Bay Lines. Along with my ticket, I received a handful of treats and even was invited to put my paws up on the counter, just like the regulars.

However, it being my very first ferry ride, I was a tad frightened. Fortunately, along came a savior in the form of Angela, one of the founders of Coonhound Companions, which aims to promote my breed as perfect pets.

Angela certainly knows her hounds. She tagged me as a Walker right away, then showed me pix of her ooh-la-la Black and Tan, Olivia. (That's a photo of Olivia on the Coonhound Companions home page.) Angela kindly pointed me up the inner stairs, away from the loud engine noise, then she and Mom settled in for a meaty discussion of the hound sensibility.

You must check out the website for the official "Top Ten Reasons Why Coonhounds are the Best Dogs Ever." I couldn't agree more. Check out their promotional kit, with incredibly cute photos of gorgeous hounds that are free to distribute, as well as the Long Ears blog.

My favorite poster is the "Long Ears=Lotsa Fun!" in which a hound who looks just like moi is riding in a boat, ears blown back. Kind of like me on the Casco Bay ferry!

Speaking of swimming, I'm in awe of Diana Nyad, who hopes this summer to complete a swim from Cuba to Key West. She blogs that she greatly misses her dogs, Scout and Teddy. Guess they'd rather take the ferry, too.

Canines and cocktails at the Wellesley College Club? I'm in!

2011-07-23T17:03:00.001-04:00

So check this out: every Thursday this summer, from 5-7, the Wellesley College Club is hosting "Canines and Cocktails" on its gorgeous terrace overlooking Lake Waban. Seems the event is part of an effort promoting the Club as a pet-friendly hotel. Glad to hear it!

Having just returned from vaca in laid-back Biddeford Pool, Maine, which also is a very pet-friendly place, I'm in need of a bit more relaxation. Took in a bit too much sun and am enervated as a result. Nothing that a good long sleep won't cure, followed, of course, by a good long slurp.


Completely enervated by the heat in Portland, I crashed on Peaks Island, where the ocean breeze was strong and cool.

What's the difference between enervated and exhausted, you ask? You've asked the right pup, one very practiced in sleeping. Enervated: to feel weakened and drained of energy; exhausted, to feel drained of one's physical or mental resources.

What, not enlightened yet?

Let's look at the roots: exhausted from the Latin verb meaning to draw water out, or drain. Enervated, also from the Latin, meaning weakened at the sinews. Weary to the very bone.

In other words, dog-tired. Just like me. Until Thursday at 5, that is.

The best toys in the world—for a dog, that is

2011-07-15T16:13:00.000-04:00

The best toys: as close as I can get to the real thing.
Found these at Pet World: love those Kitty City cats!

With my stay at Liz's coming up, Mom finally realized my time away from home might be made less miserable if I had a new toy. Look, I'm crazy about the selection of beds at Liz's, so I really was OK with the whole vaca thing, but I figured, let's assuage the guilt and get something out of it, too.

Checked out the selection at Especially for Pets, but came up with nada. I could not care less, but Mom is opposed to the introduction of neon into our color scheme. However, being a traditionalist, I prefer toys that look like the real thing. After all, if I'm going to play with it, why not make it something I might amuse myself with in real life?

Being that there were no life-size bears, racoons or foxes in the store, we gave up.
But not before I snagged a few lamb twists.

You know how you can't eat just one M&M? Well, except for Mom, most people can't. Anyway, I started snapping up these little lamb twists like they were popcorn. At $3.79 a snap, Mom was fainting away. At least, I thought, I'm not going for the tracheas or other esophageal parts.

So here's the odd thing: while the store had no animal replicas (OK, there was a hedgehog, in two sizes, but I like hedgehogs) it did have an array of unstuffed animals. Being that unstuffing them is where it's all at, I just didn't get the point.

Post-vacation blues? For me, there's no place like home

2011-07-14T08:50:00.000-04:00

Had a great time at Liz's (petsittingbyliz.com) but really, there's no place like home. Came home after a couple of days on vaca while my family took off for college orientation.

I checked out all the beds at Liz's.

On campus, they were greeted by a good omen: a Dalmatian trotting right in front of the student union. Now, while not as gorgeous nor as fit as Sparky (who had no compare), the sight of a happy, spotted pup made everyone feel good about this new stage in life. All went well, and they were home practically before I knew it.

I was too tired to do much when I got home, but with last night's good sleeping weather, soon regained my beastliness. After my hour and a half walk, I: bayed at the top of my lungs; ran around with my new stuffed fox; dug up a whole patch of lily of the valley; nearly took a bath in the fish pond.

That was in the first minute. No place like home, indeed.

At Liz's, I tested the "no-shred" claim on my dragon toy.

The natural order of things: me first

2011-07-10T18:15:00.007-04:00

It's pretty hard to move 90 lbs. of resoluteness.

"Who was that walking Tucker the other day?" complained the mailman. "She wouldn't let me give him a treat!"

I'm kind of like a therapy dog: I make people happy. When I let out a good, loud, bay, everyone laughs, and thus they are happy for a few moments. Feeding me makes the mailman happy. But my sister is tough, and what she says goes.

Here's the order of things in my family.
1. Mom is the pushover. She believes she has authority. In reality, she has none. It's so fun to see how far I can go with her—and I can go pretty far! Miles, in fact.
2. I kind of feel sorry for Dad. He doesn't know the first thing about discipline, and I appreciate that. I go along with what he wants most of the time. After all, we guys have to stick up for each other.
3. My sister is an equestrian, and she learned early that sweet talk gets you nowhere with horses. I am the size of a small pony, and, given that I'm bred to run all around horses, must have picked up some behavior tips somewhere along the line. I spook, I buck, I canter—and in the stubborn dept., I have no rivals.

I've learned that Mom plans to record my sister's voice giving me commands before she heads off to college, then play them back at crucial moments. For example, when I refuse to do something, which is often.

I'll just play along, as if I don't know the difference between a real person speaking and some tinny recording, and then we'll see, once again, who's really the boss.

More goodbyes--and hello, John W. Schaum!

2011-07-05T12:33:00.001-04:00

I made a special trip to say goodbye to dear Kiki.

Last week my dear friend Kiki left for Florida. I fear I'll never see her again, me not good with flying and Mom not good with long car rides. It was Kiki who Mom rescued from a Lake Waban goose chase and Kiki with whom I took long walks during gorgeous fall days.

We were kind of a "Lady and the Tramp" pair, even though of course my lineage is just as good as hers. I'm certainly quite as good-looking; however, my manners can be a bit rough. I shall miss her companionship, and her tolerance of moi, greatly.

Kiki's family gave us many parting gifts, including a piano. I do not like the bass notes at all, as they remind me a bit too much of the crazy fireworks that went on and on and on, somewhere, last night. Fortunately my sister's closet is well-equipped with a sleeping bag on which I tried to take some measure of comfort.

So I made myself scarce when Mom opened up her old John W. Schaum Piano Course book, Pre-A, The Green Book. It's been 40 years since she last played, so I agree that it certainly is best to begin at the beginning. She tried to tempt me out from the far corner of the upstairs closet with that old favorite, "Bone Sweet Bone," but as you know, I cannot be bribed.

Rep. Peisch promotes patriotic right in time for Fourth

2011-07-03T17:40:00.001-04:00

While the balloons still are going strong, I thought we were done with all the Wellesley High graduation hoopla and the plethora of encomia that my sister earned with her years of hard work. That work meant significant sacrifices on the part of moi, who suffered from loneliness while she toiled.

But not so. Our very own state representative, Alice Hanlon Peisch, also wrote, not only to congratulate my sister on her graduation, but to remind her of one more rite of passage. Rep. Peisch's kind note, which she personalized with a handwritten message noting a theatre award won by sis, included a voter registration card.

A snappy idea, nicely done, and a perfect prelude to the Fourth of July. Now, if only dogs could have the right to vote, I'd propose that all drinking fountains be outfitted for dogs as well as humans. If they have them at the Jersey Shore (and they do) can't we have some in Wellesley? Rep. Peisch, can you do anything about that?

Fitting that suffrage, though a Middle English word for intercessory prayers, was first used to denote the right to vote in the dear old US of A.

Goodbye, Dr. Schettino!

2011-06-29T21:03:00.001-04:00


If a foxhound bays forlornly in Wellesley, can it be heard in Springfield?

I'm diligent about checking my pmail, but not so my email, so it was with a shock that I opened a note from my very favorite vet in the world, Dr. Edward Schettino. We had kind of a Sunday visit thing going that I looked forward to.
In a way.

He writes:

Hi Tucker,
I didn't have the proper time today to say good-bye. [here, I sighed loudly, and Mom shrieked] I will be leaving VCA Westboro, my last day is June 30th. [egads! that's tomorrow--I will pout all day in protest] I will begin work in July at VCA Southwick (close to Springfield) as Medical Director. It is a very bitter:sweet move ... but I needed to push myself forward. [I do understand, but still...how can you leave me?]
It was a pleasure taking care of you for the last couple of years [of course] and I wish you a long healthy life. [ditto] I don't think I will ever meet a dog more stubborn .... that is not a negative .... [indeed, I take it as a great compliment] it just makes you YOU! [true, unique I am]

I will keep following your tails on your blog! [please do, though I must grieve for a while before I set to writing again]
Best regards,
Edward

[What an incredibly dear guy. I highly doubt I'll discover again the perfect combo of smart, professional, and fun vet. More crucially, who can I find who will consider my shenanigans humorous, perhaps even endearing? Given what I've tried to pull, anyone else would have run the other way when they saw me coming.]

So fare thee well, dear doc, all the best, and happy trails to you. Many thanks for your patience, professionalism and expertise. I will miss you greatly.

Diet secrets revealed!

2011-06-13T21:04:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I've visited the esteemed Dr. Schettino at VCA Westboro, so on a spare Sunday I hopped into the car and made Mom drive me over. Thought it would be the typical weigh-in, followed by my also-typical reward at Especially for Pets—conveniently located next door.

Tip: Always stand sideways, right foot forward,
for optimal slimness in photos.

They really should put in some kind of massage place or something, because Mom's always exhausted after taking me. She's the one who needs to calm down.

All seemed to go according to plan, but I got tipped off in the waiting area that something more was happening. There was no way I was going in. I plopped. "That's right," said the vet tech, whom I had not met before. "I heard he was a lot like a donkey!"

As I was deciding whether this comment was critical or complimentary, Dr. S. came out. "He has a waist!" he exclaimed, and everyone gathered 'round to admire my new silhouette. Unfortunately, everyone also had a certain uncomfortable procedure in mind. My focus point was on how quickly I could wrestle two people to the ground.

Now onto my diet secrets:
Tucker's Diet Secret #1: Destroy the temptation to eat more than you should. I unwittingly stumbled onto this gem after mistakenly annihilating the cup used to measure my food. It was replaced with a slightly smaller cup; therefore, I've been eating less.

Tucker's Diet Secret #2: Follow your nose and get some exercise. You know how when you're enjoying yourself, you don't even realize you're doing something healthy? In search of the source of some tantalizing scents, and in part to help poor Mom relax, I've traversed mile after mile.

Tucker's Diet Secret #3: Nap when you get tired. You actually burn calories when you sleep, so napping isn't lazy—it's work toward your goal of gaining and maintaining a svelte figure. After all, it's supposed to be bathing suit season, and I for one am ready.

Tucker the famous, indeed!

2011-06-04T20:21:00.000-04:00

"Is this the famous Tucker?" a human asked this morning as we prepared for our morning walk at Lake Waban. "Infamous," muttered Mom under her breath, but I heard her anyway. After all, my ears are plenty big.

Taking a walk with my dedicated dad.

Turns out, the human belonged to my old pal, Moose! I first met Moose when he was a baby, and he's certainly grown. While of course not as large as moi, his head is big, and a bit out of proportion to his rather slender body.

Funny, what Moose's human remembered about me was that when we first met, I let out a hugely loud bay clear across Lilja field, then dashed over to meet the new pup. Apparently I made an indelible impression.

While I'm crazy about little dogs (played with a 2.5 lb-er—yep, just two and a half pounds!—just last week) I'm always amazed that their owners let them play with me.

But maybe that's because I am so famous.

Help for hounds, and treats, too

2011-05-22T08:58:00.001-04:00

Today's an open house (12-5 p.m.—be there) and the dedication of the isolation unit at Greyhound Friends in Hopkinton, the venerable rescue and adoption shelter that has been finding homes for my fleeter relatives since 1983.

So, run, don't walk—the unit's important because pets from southern climes have been bringing in all sorts of diseases that vets don't ordinarily see here in Massachusetts. The open house is also a chance for greyhound owners to get together for a fun meetup.

Fortunately, though I'm from South Carolina, I headed up here disease-free. Stubborn as all get-out, but healthy.

My nifty new treat jar from Second Chances in Natick.

If you can't get there, at least make it to Greyhound Friends' thrift shop, Second Chances, in downtown Natick, on West Central right near Main. We donated a bunch of dog-related goodies, and couldn't resist picking up a treat jar. It's fab. Also, we found a super feeder that puts all I need at just the right height. All I need, one must emphasize, not all I want.

In return for our donations, I was offered a bottle of glucosamine, but declined on account of my callow youth. More on age when you hear about my big Plop O'Doom yesterday. That's another story.

Senior Pet Day, hawk cam and horsing around

2011-05-21T21:07:00.000-04:00

Mom is starry-eyed with the hawk cam outside the NYU president's office, exclaiming every time she catches a glimpse of the baby, which viewers have named Pip. He is kind of cute, but although I like the Dickens reference, for me it's only a virtual attraction: I prefer chasing the real goslings, eight of them, that have arrived at the pond.

I got close to another fowl last week: a rooster, brought to Senior Pet Day at Wellesley High School. Not senior-aged pets, but pets of senior-level teens. While not exactly the star of the show (that designation of course goes to moi) it was a rather unusual choice. Less unusual, perhaps, than the photo of the pet rock that was circulated as ambulatory pets and seniors paraded.

Just to make my presence known, I let out a spectacular bay at the sight of one of my neighbors, a scruffy black thing. Small, but vicious. Unfortunately, I have firsthand knowledge of its tiny sharp teeth. Fortunately, my height came in handy when it attempted to go for the jugular.

Speaking of tall, was that a horse at WHS last week, just outside the library doors? Despising being upstaged, I'm glad I wasn't present.

Wellesley's Wonderful Foxhound—I mean Weekend

2011-05-18T20:46:00.001-04:00

Of course there's a dog contest this weekend, because Swellesley's just so swonderful! I plan to check it out, from 10-10:30 Saturday at the Warren Center. You should, too, but I'm pretty sure I've got first prize in the bag.

That's just one of the super events planned. Count me in on Saturday's pancake breakfast, and definitely save a spot on the town forest walk: cake and refreshments will be served. Perhaps I'll follow that hectic morning with a free massage, or maybe just a nap. I'm a little worried, however, that the hourly cannon firing might disrupt my sleep schedule. XXL canine earplugs, anyone?

If anyone is wondering if it will rain—again—for the fireworks on Sunday, just check with me. If I'm shivering, that means a thunderstorm is coming. Of course, if the fireworks go off, I'll be shivering anyway. Either way, I'm bound to jiggle off quite a few calories.

Find more great Wellesley events on this schedule.

A foxhound speaks to birds

2011-05-16T17:05:00.001-04:00

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!

2011-05-16T16:39:00.000-04:00

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.

I’ve been to London to visit the Queen…

2011-05-13T22:02:00.000-04:00

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.

Prom time! Bath time, too...

2011-05-02T21:22:00.000-04:00

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.

Happy Easter, Swellesley style

2011-04-24T21:23:00.000-04:00


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.

Attention please: can dogs eat edamame?

2011-04-21T11:07:00.000-04:00

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.

Cheering them on at the Boston Marathon!

2011-04-18T14:42:00.001-04:00

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!

The Boston Marathon: a Wellesley pup's perspective

2011-04-17T18:29:00.000-04:00

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!

Down came the rain and...I panicked

2011-04-16T21:14:00.000-04:00

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.

The case of the purloined Pups

2011-04-08T21:41:00.001-04:00

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?

April foolin' around

2011-04-01T13:39:00.001-04:00

The picture of sincerity.

So, I knew it was snowing, which is why I slept in rather than bombing around the house and whooo-hooing for Dad to take me for a walk.

Then I had an idea. How about I give it the old whoo-hoo, make Dad put on all his winter gear, etc., etc., and then balk at the last moment?

It worked. I April Fooled Dad into thinking I would actually go out even though it was raining, snowing and ka-thunking giant gobs o' ice and snow down around our Swellesley home.

Which leads me to a poem.

Hubbubility, or How I Rule the Roost
by Tucker

I thought Mom the one most gullible,
And Dad the most untroubleble.
But when I've got the itch
To pull a bait and switch,
They're a cinch to make hubbubable.

Tucker's first full supermoon

2011-03-19T21:01:00.002-04:00

Last night's supermoon reminded me of nothing less than an empty food bowl. While one might have expected me to have bayed at the stunning sight, the only yowls I let out were ones of hunger, after being woken from my early bedtime and dragged outside.

I couldn't help but be reminded of that sweet little kitten in Kevin Henkes' Kitten's First Full Moon, who sees the moon and wants it, then thinks its reflection in the water is a bowl of milk (hey, wasn't that a dog story to start with—remember, in Aesop's Fables, the dog sees the reflection of his bone in the water and is so greedy that as he opens his mouth to scoop up the supposed second bone, the real one falls into the drink). Anyway, Henkes' kitten finally laps up a real bowl of milk. I guess I can forgive Mr. Henkes for turning the dog into a kitten, him having won the Caldecott Medal for it and all.

A satisfying tale, perfectly done. But I digress.

I stumbled along the edge of the pond, bleary-eyed. Mom, always eager to see a natural event, woke practically everybody in the neighborhood, so I didn't have to do anything, voice-wise. However, when she tore our friends Carol and Don away from their pasta to see the trumpeted supermoon, I tried to insist they return to their dinner. They are so good-natured that they were not even deterred by my jumping on them, my paws over Don's shoulders in a weird kind of dance. So we all took in the supermoon, and then, properly awed, and after more than a decent interval, went home. In retribution for the interrupted sleep, I demanded several treats and a peanut butter bone.

Pi day, or is it pie day?

2011-03-14T21:12:00.004-04:00

I was so excited when my math-focused sister told me today was pie day—I'm crazy about it! Then, when I noticed she was knitting mittens with three stripes, then one stripe, then four stripes, in this nutty pattern that had no pattern at all, I nudged her several times with my oversized nose. Where, after all, was the pie?

An empty bowl is a sad thing. Dirty, too. Where's that maid?

I suffered through her explanation. But look, the one circle I care about is my bowl. Whether it's full or not is the only thing I'd even dream of calculating at suppertime.

But in honor of Pi Day, and looking ahead to National Canine Poetry Fortnight, I herewith present my Pi poem. The syllables represent the first few digits of pi, which, I learned, is 3.141592653...and since pi is infinite, food is the optimal subject of my poem. Just don't try to measure my diameter. Paws off!

For the Love of Pi (e)
by Tucker

Tell you true.
I
love pie, pie, pie.

Pie:
Apple, cherry, plum
All make scrumptious pickings for my tum.

If one
Should even try to take
Precious pie away—
Hear me bay.

Awooooooooo ad infinitum

Canine Poetry Fortnight: two weeks to go to the dogs

2011-03-09T17:58:00.002-05:00

I'm going to carve out my own two weeks out of March, and I suggest you do the same, in recognition of National Canine Poetry Fortnight. It's an apt precursor to National Poetry Month, which for all of you who are not in the know, is in April. I wouldn't expect my readers to know of National Canine Poetry Fortnight, because I just invented it.

Pet peeve: when writers say something like, "Lady Gaga, for all of you who have been on Mars for the last few years," which assumes that all of course know of Lady Gaga, or whomever. Dogs cannot set up iTunes accounts, our paws are not deft enough to work iPods, and some of us live in families whose musical taste is not all that au courant.

But I digress, as usual. To kick off National Canine Poetry Fortnight, and because I do like to plan ahead, I have composed a couplet:

On Fame
by Tucker

I never grow tired
Of being admired.

Thanks to Lorna at the newly-renamed Wellesley Books for not only being one of my most ardent admirers (although how could one gauge the depth of such adoration as I get when I enter that fabulous home of treats) but also for her inspiration.

My purpose driven life

2011-03-03T10:05:00.000-05:00

Does everyone have a purpose in life? Is each unique? As everything I do is purposeful, I'll focus on just one of my many purposes today: identifying Volvo vehicles. That is, C-A-Rs, as my family insists on calling them, as if I didn't know how to spell.

The question is not what is my purpose. The question is: what is the need for my purpose? I wish more would consider this question as they purposely go around doing whatever they seem to need to be doing.

I, however, believe I have uncovered potential needs. For example, were the police looking for a Volvo vehicle, and somehow could not find one, I could. Or, if some mall shopper somehow misplaced his or her Volvo vehicle, I could easily sniff it out from a whole parking lot full of various makes and models. I can even identify particular models, and certainly can tell which ones need servicing. Ah, there's another need!

My methods are proprietary, but here's how a mere human can tell I have identified the right one: I perform a perfect Plop O'Doom right there in the parking lot, or the middle of the road, even in the thick of traffic. "And all he could do was sit, sit, sit, sit," complained Mom to Dad, clearly addled by yesterday's too hearty celebration of Dr. Seuss' birthday.

Though she did not like it, not one little bit, one must not quail in the face of duty.

P.S. What is the difference between purposeful and stubborn? Let me elucidate. Purposeful: having or showing great determination or resolve. Stubbornness: showing dogged determination, especially when confronted with good reasons to the contrary not to pursue that doggone determined goal. As in, "My stubbornness in refusing to leave the side of a Volvo, though it wasn't ours, this morning in 10 degree weather, came from my having purposefully sought it out and identified it."

Waking up is hard to do

2011-02-28T20:41:00.000-05:00

The stretch.

OK, vaca is over, so that means I actually have to get up sometime in the a.m.

The fluff.

Bright-eyed and ready to go.

However, it is not easy. Nor desirable, if any precipitation is happening, or even in the offing. Also, I'm not at my best immediately after waking: I need a bit of a fluff, one might say, plus some serious stretching. If all of America prepared for the day as I do, plus received a min of three hours of exercise, we'd be in much better shape.

Who'll stop the rain? Or provide a pop-up palanquin?

2011-02-25T13:54:00.000-05:00

Given that people think they're in control, why can't they fix the weather? I've been griping all day, to no avail. Can't they take me somewhere where it is not raining?

Mom tried, though it was a not-even-half-hearted effort. That is, she drove to the mailbox. What was she thinking, that it wasn't going to be raining 100 feet away? That somehow a little cloud was hovering right over our house, throwing raindrops down at just us?

In any case, mailbox trip or not, I let myself be coaxed into the car—back seat, of course, the wayback being just a bit too close to the wet stuff dripping off the roof. I also had to be coaxed out—once we safely were back in the garage.

I like a ride, as you know, and the back seat is much cozier than the wayback. Plus, it has built-in pet bowls. You know, if we were traveling, and got stuck somewhere, it would be good to stash some extra food in there. Bet that's not in the typical car emergency kit. Also, that kit should include a dog umbrella; better yet, a pop-up palanquin on which I could both rest and be protected from the weather.

A palanquin, if you didn't know, is one of those covered couches, mounted between poles that are carried by four to six minions. I definitely would need six. The term comes from the Portuguese, based on the Sanskrit for bed or couch. Which reminds me...time for a nap.

I've got a crush on you, sweetie pie

2011-02-23T12:07:00.000-05:00

That's what my neighbor Alexis confessed today. First, she thanked me. "It was marvelous being escorted by such a handsome gentleman," she said. Then, out with the confession. I was a bit taken aback, being that it came from a human and all, but I graciously accepted the sentiment. Then I went back to nosing Maisie, the rather attractive foxhound mix with whom I had been walking.

I was very glad to see Alexis, Maisie and Ella this morning. First, because I always enjoy a jaunt with my British friends. It's rather elevating to be in Alexis' company, because she is very smart and a good person, plus she always is walking that dear Maisie. And, I do like the accent.

I was doubly glad because I was fresh from a near-altercation with this gigantic Samoyed, whose owner trailed him by such a distance that I could see some skijoring was about to take place. Even though I have never formally skijored, I have taken Mom on a Nantucket sleighride or two, just for fun. I sized up the Samoyed and could see, even under all that hair, that he had a poundage advantage over moi. Plus, it was early, I was a bit sleepy, and not really in the mood for going mano a mano. I made a show of it, but I turned around.

You never know when love will strike, even if it is after Valentine's Day.

A lip-smackin' St. Valentine's gift, and eye candy, too

2011-02-13T21:38:00.002-05:00

I snuffled into Mom's grocery bag before she could unpack it, and pulled out a big, gorgeous bone from Castor & Pollux, via our favorite market, Tilly and Salvy's Bacon Street Farm.

So I received my Valentine gift early, but that just means I can be chewing on it while checking out the competition during Mondays's hound group at the Westminster Dog Show. Two new breeds are crowding the hound field this year: the Bluetick Coonhound and the Redbone Coonhound. My breed, of course, the venerable American Foxhound, first entered the field in 1877, the very first year the show was held.

Unfortunately, we have never won Best in Show. Hounds rarely do: remember the big to-do when Uno the Beagle won in 2008?

Perhaps it has something to do with my breed's lack of affinity for grooming (see my recent piece on pedicures). Certainly it has nothing to do with our natural beauty. I cannot predict, alas, a BIS (the au courant know that's Westminster shorthand for Best in Show) this year, but were I a candidate, things surely would be different.

The lady...or the pedicure?

2011-02-10T13:49:00.002-05:00

I would have preferred the girl.

I'm your typical full-blooded male, so put yourself in my paws: if you could choose between a date with a young, gorgeous girl or the opportunity to be manhandled to within an inch of your life so you could get a mani-pedi, which would it be?

I'm just saying. Because Mom thinks a bully stick is enough to make up for my being thrust into a muzzle, wrestled by three gigantic people and placed on a platform, where I was tied up and forced to endure said brutalization of my nails. Mani-pedi, indeed! They practically put me in a straitjacket!

All of this went on in front of this young creature, who, I might add, was just as interested in moi as I was in her. Truly, I cannot imagine anything more humiliating.

Mom, however, begs to disagree (and what does she know about begging?). After she was ejected from the tonsorial parlor for her unhelpful interference, she ran into two of our neighbors. They expressed concern, noticing that she and her wallet were limp with emotional and monetary exhaustion (pedicure: $10; muzzle and straitjacket: $5; bully stick, $7.99; tips, undocumented). She fessed up and so claims, too, to have undergone embarrassment.

To reciprocate, I refused to get back in the car, even with the bully stick bribe just waiting there for me. Adding to the impact, the neighbors had parked in the space next to mine, so they witnessed my fully-deserved tantrum.

The snow also falls by Ernest M. Tuckerby

2011-02-05T10:16:00.000-05:00

The woods were white and the snow was crusty. Something had laid down a path and I followed it. The scent of fox was strong and I followed the scent and the path. I skyrocketed over the ridge and pointed at the top. If I took a step off the path I was in snow up to my hips.

Mom lost a Yaktrax but it was not the time to go back and look for it. From across the creek I heard howling and caterwauling and I shut my ears. I could smell blood and I told Mom to close her nose. There was the scent of blood and the sound of blood and I didn't want Mom to smell it or hear it. I pinned my ears back but I kept my tail up to show that I wasn't afraid.

We turned around and took the path through the marsh. The marsh looked like a meadow and the snow almost reached the birdhouses that stand high over the water in the spring. The snow was crusty and the path widened and Mom limped along the path. When we came out of the woods the Jehovah's Witnesses were coming down from Maine in their shiny cars and I went home and ate breakfast and took a nap.

Everything you want to know about your dog...

2011-02-03T09:32:00.001-05:00

I could tell you, but if you'd rather speak to a human, the "Ask Dog Lady" communicator, Monica Collins, is heading to Boston's Bark Place spa and boutique on Saturday, Feb. 12.

Not only is she sharing her expertise, she's offering one-on-one consultations! OK, Dog Lady, I'd like to flip this scenario and have you answer these questions:

1. What makes Mom and Dad think I want to go outside in nasty weather? I mean, if school's canceled and the kids have to stay in, I'd like to stay in, too. Which leads to...
2. How does one handle lifestyle differences in the same family? In other words, they're active, I'm not. Discuss.
3. Why can't I sit in the front seat?
4. What is the difference, exactly, between pet food and people food? Because I'm sick of eating the same old, same old, day in and day out.
5. Petiquette question: Do I have to have playdates with all of Mom and Dad's friends' dogs, or can I just invite the ones I like?

Bark Place must know how to bring in the crowds, because attendees receive merchandise discounts, and food will be available for "both two- and four-legged friends."

Hmmm...is there a difference?

Ask the Dog Lady, from 12-2, at Bark Place. Call to reserve a free spot: 857-362-7494.

Outside? No, thanks!

2011-02-02T20:14:00.006-05:00

I ran upstairs to the protection of my room.

Does one have to speak English to be able to communicate the fact that it's absolutely horrible outside, so I would really rather not take the air?

Apparently, yes. This morning, my family, two behind and one in front, deliberately forced me into this wild, wild weather, with another foot of snow having fallen and icy pellets pinging off my insulated jacket (collar popped, of course). Ping! Ping! Ping! Isn't that enough warning to heed?

Having no verbal say in the matter, I at last consented to trek to the end of the street, and then, being able to master Mom, turned around and, picking up plenty of steam for the return trip, dragged her back in. You know, to put herself in my paws, for a change.

How did she like it? Not one bit, because she objected to Dad feeding me.

Harrumph. Of course, with Dad in charge of the food bin, I got my way. Again.

Carb loading: it's a good thing

2011-02-01T20:15:00.000-05:00

You know how I've been salivating for a bagel, and how my dad ruthlessly threw away my precious bagel find.

So, my sister was home for the snowday, and Mom was in charge of lunch. Opportunity #1. (Mom is a rather lackluster lunchmaker, as opposed to Short-Order Dad, who's a genius.

My sister takes out a couple of bagels, Mom goes to do some icicle destroying. Opportunity #2. (I set this one up by refusing to go out the back door underneath dripping icicles. After all, wouldn't want to suffer from the elements.)

I sneak and take a bagel, very, very quietly. And I just take one, because two definitely would be noticed.

After my snack, I take a nap, conveniently timed to coincide with Mom's lunch.

Just to top it off, the next day, while Dad's heating up some chicken parm with pasta, I swipe my share. (Opportunity #3.)

Canine couture: paws up or down? And, to pop the collar, or not?

2011-01-26T16:25:00.001-05:00

"Does the dog need a coat?" asks the Wall Street Journal, in a surprisingly indulgent piece on the human obsession with canine anthropomorphism. (I mean, do they really care?)

Photo 1. Flannel sheets are better than a coat.

Well, to that first question, the answer depends on whether one chooses to go outside. For example, if the temp is under, say, 32 degrees, I believe one does not need a coat, for one is most likely to stay under the covers, preferably flannel. (see photo #1)

Photo 2. Biscuit at the beach.

Moreover, if it is a lovely summer day and one is at the beach, I would also say no (see photo #2 of my soulmate, Biscuit. And wouldn't she look stunning in a bikini?) At most, one might need a terry robe with which to towel off.

My nose is an excellent tool, both barometer and thermometer. Each morning I stretch my neck out toward the open door, but never beyond, until I obtain the correct reading. Most often, these bitterly cold and snowy days, I stay in. Way in.

The Journal quotes Rene Carlson, president-elect of the American Veterinary Medical Association, giving this cost-cutting fashion tip: Rather than splurging on expensive gear, "A child's sweatshirt from a thrift shop cut to fit and bundled under a dog's belly with a zip tie can do the trick."

I'm sorry, but that kind of DIY wouldn't satisfy the need to dress up a dog. Plus, I suspect the zip tie might not fit around a belly such as mine.

Photo 3. Collar popped and ready.

A more essential question when Dad insists on taking me out in such abysmal conditions: collar popped, or not? (see photo #3 for popped option.)

What does it take to get a decent bagel around here?

2011-01-21T21:28:00.001-05:00

Ok, so I'm from the South, and don't know a bagel from a bialy. In theory.

Truth is, I've been salivating for a bagel for two whole days, and I knew exactly where to find one: deep inside a snowbank next to Morses Pond.

I first sniffed it out when I was down there with Dad, who grew wise to my game. Then this morning, during the storm, I tried to drag Mom down the steep hill to the pond. Steep for her, that is.

"Tucker," she said as I weathervaned myself in the right direction. "I'm not going down there. It's too icy." When she tempted me with a treat, I lost my willpower and gave in.

Tried again tonight. I moped around until someone noticed. Once again dragging Mom in my wake, I faked like I wanted to go for a neighborhood stroll, then homed in on my pondside treat. That bagel was sending out a signal like a semaphore, even though the night was pitch black. I dove into the snowbank and came up victorious. Then zoomed home, with the frozen delicacy well ensconced in my capacious jaws, while Mom flailed behind.

My plan worked perfectly, until I dropped the dear, cold bagel on the living room rug and prepared my attack. Ignoring my bared teeth, Dad picked up said bagel, and dropped it, sorry to say, into the—gulp—trash.

Man bites dog, dog bites Martha, dog goes vegan

2011-01-20T20:08:00.001-05:00

Not the same dog, of course, but there's been a ton of canine related news this week.

A tiny Times story relates the tale of a University of Maine researcher who was investigating in interesting bit of 9,400-year-old human excrement. Why, I can't imagine, but inside was a bit of bone, and it was definitely dog.

The Martha story we've already covered, but the Times apparently has an appetite for all stories related to pets. Yesterday's Dining section featured a huge front page story and recipe for homemade pet food: 40 pounds of chicken necks, 20 pounds of giblets, 5 pounds of carrots (I could do without those), etc., etc. That at least sounds more reasonable than the tofu, kale and lentil vegan diet (plus some other inordinately healthful ingredients) foisted upon a greyhound and beagle. But at 15 and 16 years of age, something must be right.

Now, you'll notice I'm not waxing eloquent about Chaser the border collie, she of the extremely large vocabulary—1,022 nouns (and the subject of yet another Times story. That exact count reminds me of a proud grandma bout that took place many years ago. One grandma was saying to my grandma, "My granddaughter can say 53 words." My grandma, never to be outdone, said of my 18-month-old sister, "Well, my granddaughter can say 53 words in the same sentence." Which was true.

Anyway, 1,022 words seems a bit inefficient. The essential dog vocabulary consists of understanding these words: sit, treat, paw and car.

There's only one answer to the best word of all, "Hungry?," and that's a good long howl of affirmation. You can bet that whatever's in my bowl, it's not vegan.

Pup rejects Martha Stewart's kiss, pops her a big one

2011-01-14T11:44:00.003-05:00

Now, I'm not sure I'd want to pucker up to Martha, either, even though Mom is a devotee. Last night, in fact, as our family dined on curried butternut squash and pear soup, we thought: "If Martha were here, she'd make a paint color out of this dish."

Martha, too, was the inspiration for Mom's idea to have her own mini Palais des Poulets in our backyard, complete with color-coordinated eggs. Dad, however, who grew up with chickens when Angelenos still had room for orange trees in their backyards, nixed that idea.

I was a little bit sorry, because chickens are fun.

Anyway, Martha's French bulldog, Francesca, popped her one "like a boxing glove hitting an opponent’s face" when she woke her up before heading out on her round of appearances (see Martha's blog). Fortunately, Martha had her driver, accompanied of course by her stable manager, available to take her to the ER. You can view 34 up close and personal pictures of the horrific aftermath (complete with an unfavorable comment on the hospital room decor). Funny, "up close & personal" is her blog's subtitle. Martha, your attention to detail is amazing.

Martha, if you decide to go into hospital decorating, don't forget vet hospitals. They could use your touch.

Personal P.S. to Martha:
Take it from me: Let sleeping dogs lie. I'm sure you know the French for that. Or should you use Italian instead? And don't forget: Europeans kiss on both cheeks.

Banished foxhound back in Wayland

2011-01-13T08:08:00.001-05:00

Something has gone dreadfully wrong. A foxhound mix running unleashed and biting people in Wayland? It's bad publicity for the breed. First of all, if I were unleashed, I'd be long gone. That's my job and what I was bred for. Though I adore my family, I am ruled by the nose--at least until I get hungry, or it starts snowing or raining. I simply hate bad weather.

The MetroWest Daily News reports that the hound's owners have fines totaling more than $30,000, refuse to put up a fence and haven't complied with an order banishing Laska from town.

I know that when I came to Wellesley, Mom and Dad immediately had a six-foot fence put up, not because they were required to, but because I jumped the four-foot one and scared them to death as I raced around, and around, and around. But most adoption listings say that a six-foot fence is a must for my agile breed.

Anyway, the town is trying to capture Laska. All I can say is, good luck, because if there's one thing we are great at, it's dodging obstacles while running at top speed.

However, if Laska is anything like me, she loves car rides. Whenever I have escaped the confines of our fence, Mom just opens the garage, yells "car," and in I go. Just a thought.

Neither snow, nor rain, will make me go outside

2011-01-12T19:36:00.000-05:00

I finally relented, as documented here. Fortunately for my family, treats sometimes do tempt me outside in inclement weather. But I wasn't happy about it.

While flakes were falling, and my parents were shoveling out, I lolled about, hopping from sleeping place to sleeping place and chewing on the occasional bone.

No mail today; our letter carrier probably couldn't make it up the hill. I love mail, and the treats that come with it (thank you, O honorable letter carriers!) and have been eagerly awaiting a US Postal Service stamp honoring Owney, the mascot of the U.S. Railway Mail Service. Mom has been working on a nonfiction book about him; maybe it will be done by the time the stamp appears this summer.

Owney loved to travel, so it's only fitting that he'll be traveling again on letters all over. As for me, as long as it's winter, I think I'll just stay home and climb into bed.

How Santa lost his squeaker; or, how toys become real

2011-01-03T21:23:00.000-05:00

It should come as no surprise that, by the 10th day of Christmas, Santa's squeaker was gone. I think, actually, it went missing around the fifth day. Meanwhile, Santa is looking a bit ragged. But I love him just the same.

Mom just read me The Velveteen Rabbit, so I'm wondering, did Santa become Real after I loved him, or was he Real even before? Anyway, he's definitely Real now.

Speaking of Real, there are some real rabbits who have moved in underneath the playhouse. I caught the scent when I returned from my vaca, and Mom spotted the signs. Licorice and Nutmeg must be thrilled. Wonder if they'll let me play with them. Of course, I will be much more careful with them than I was with Santa. Much.