The Mystery of the Missing Treats

 

Rory here, doing a blog takeover for Tucker. I'm a new hound, and a news hound, so my first post is perfect for this Halloween edition.

Time: Last week, an ordinary day.

Setting: I'm about to make my usual stop at the Driveway Diner. It's a pleasant spot. Two bowls, one medium, the other teeny, are filled with clean water. Cheery flags advertise each season.

Best of all is the treat bin. It's always stuffed with fabulous treats, and it's always a mystery (to my folks at least, because their noses are not nearly as large as mine) what's inside.

But on this day, that's not the only mystery.

Picture this: I pick up my pace, ready for my mid-morning snack, ears perked, belly growling. I come to a screeching halt at the treat bin.

But no. The treat bin isn't there.

I sniff each blade of grass. I sniff again.

Still no bin.

My belly growls again. I howl.

My newsy nose tells me something is seriously awry: The bin is not just gone, but stolen!

I make this case my top priority.

I gather the facts:

Scene: Side street, quiet neighborhood  (except for my howling)

Time of the crime: I'd guess between midnight and 4 a.m.

Crime: Thievery of the highest order; to wit, a threat to the very life of each dog in our neighborhood who must survive, snackless, during their walks.

Suspects: Unknown, but I'll sniff them out.

I begin tracking. First, I inspect the skeleton, pumpkins, and stuffed toys found at the scene to isolate the thieves' scent.

Down the street, I check out the trash can. I get to the bottom of it. Nothing but a hotdog wrapper.

Chalk outline on a nearby driveway? Unrelated. That investigation will have to wait.

Mom and I canvass the neighborhood. Mom uses her eyes; I use my nose--of course.

At the field, I grab a fleece someone left behind. I want to save it as evidence, but Mom says no.

The search turns up...nothing. The trail has gone cold. For now.

The next day, Mom and I interview the treat people. They have no clues.

The next week, a new treat bin appears.

It's exactly like the old one--almost. I know, because I'm a trained observer. And my observations tell me that this is no trick--these treats are delicious, just like always.

Happy Halloween!

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the liver treats
that were in
the big
bucket

and which
you were probably
saving
to dole out in a desperate but fruitless attempt at bribery

Forgive me
they were delicious
so pungent
and so crunchy

Ah-wooooooo! I've inspired a book!! Coming spring 2020 to bookstores everywhere!

Really, are you surprised?

'Tis true. Apparently Mom isn't always mad at my stubborness. Turns out, she has to admit that I'm more than just a pile of poundage pasted to the pavement, refusing to move. She actually thinks that I'm funny!

Here's the proof:

Pro tip: click on the picture to see it larger.

So my book is called HOUND WON'T GO, and the deal is, even though Mom's name has to be on the cover because I'm not a human, I'm going to get all the attention.

As is proper, like usual.

You all know that I love being recognized everywhere I go. Last week I trotted into Paper Source in Wellesley Square. It was only my second time in, but apparently I'm memorable. The first time, I pushed my weighty self behind the counter to demand a treat, then turned up my nose in my "just kidding" maneuver. But this manager apparently has my number. Before I could even get to the checkout area, she calls out "You're not fooling me!"

I liked that. And I did my routine anyway. It's all material for writing--maybe a sequel!

We're a writing family. I write, Dad writes, my sister writes, and even my brother Sparky kept diary entries. Lately, though, Mom's been hogging the computer. I can't wait until she goes back to school so Dad and I can soak up some good writing time. Time to get working on a sequel to my forthcoming picture book. My agent's expecting it.

Ah-wooooooo!

HAPPY HOUND-Y HALLOWEEN!

Mom decided to have fun at my expense with the Halloweensie contest--in its 8th year!--sponsored by children's author Susanna Leonard Hill. 

Susanna's the author of the delightful books WHEN YOUR MONKEYS WON'T GO TO BED, WHEN YOUR LLAMA NEEDS A HAIRCUT, and more.

This year's contest rules: a story or poem under 100 words using the words cauldron, howl, and shiver.

Here's my 94-word entry.
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HOUND'S HALLOWEEN

by Lisa Rogers

Something flitted past the cauldron

Something made me quiver

Something set my teeth on edge

Something made me shiver.

Something moved through swaying trees

Something crouched between

Something flickered in the gloom

Something howled on Halloween.

Ahhhhhroooooooooo!

Something made my blood run cold

Something made me prickle

Something sniffed my outstretched hand 

Something made me tickle!

Something brushed against my skin

Something moved real slow

Something's breath came far too close

Something licked my toe!

Something raced beneath the moon

Something whirled around

Something set my heart aglow—

My ghostly, ghastly, goofy hound!

Ahhhhhroooooooooo! 

Here I am looking appropriately miserable
in my prisoner costume.

Someone came knocking at my wee small door...

*But it was too cold to open it...*

In honor of Poetry Month, here's the whole of Walter de la Mare's poem, which should come to mind the next time you are careening around a forest and just happen to stick your nose right into a wee small door.

Some One

Some one came knocking
     At my wee, small door;
Some one came knocking,
     I'm sure - sure - sure;
I listened, I opened,
     I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a-stirring
     In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
     Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
     The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
     While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
     At all, at all, at all.

by Walter de la Mare

Sticking my nose in someone else's business...

I was rash. I was impetuous. I was...being myself.

It happened early, say, around 2:30 a.m. No moon. I dashed outside, surprised an intruder, and, BAM! something stuck me in the eye. Claw? Thorn? I don't know. I stumbled up the stairs and basically blacked out for the rest of the night.

I woke up late the next a.m., late enough to worry my folks. I tottered downstairs, one eye barely open, the other swollen and totally closed.

Stoic as always, I decided not to disclose exactly what happened.

Off we went to VCA Westboro, where, fortunately, my personal staff was on duty. Unfortunately, they knew all of my evasions and other tricks. While I uncharacteristically cowered in a corner, rather than throwing myself at the door to the lobby, three of my friends debated the best way to get me to the scale.

They tried luring me into that dreaded back room. I would not budge.
"Lead him in the cat way," one said. No dice.
"Try the staff entrance," suggested another. No way.

Now, I went along willingly enough just last month. The result: 93 lbs, and I can say with all honesty that it's mostly muscle. Plus, I wear it well.

In any case, another weigh-in was absolutely out of the question. So those 93 lbs. stayed put.

Being a practical woman and a very astute reader of the situation, Dr. Dalamangas decided to treat me right there, in the exam room. Mom got to help when things got dicey.

I threw myself at the door while Mom attempted to sign for my treatment, backing off at the sight of an enormous Akita trying to enter. Realizing I was in no mood to take on that beast, too, Mom signaled to the owner to back off, which she kindly did.

Turns out the enormous Akita was no bigger than I: had we gone mano a mano, I would have won. Even with one eye closed.

"Sleepwalker" a High Line hit

Sleepwalker's found his peeps in NYC.

Reviled by many, splashed with yellow paint and generally not a welcome sight on Wellesley College's campus, Tony Matelli's "Sleepwalker" sculpture is getting a lot of love on NYC's High Line.

Mom reported this to me firsthand, because I could not accompany her to the city where she was headed to meet her agent. Somehow, she never gets tired of saying this.

The reasons I could not go were these:

1) While dogs now are permitted on Amtrak, those of my bulk (a very muscular 93 lbs.) are definitely not ok. Discrimination?

2) Even had I somehow snuck aboard, the High Line also prohibits dogs. Perhaps that's why Sleepwalker's pup (far less controversial, but still vandalized with matching paint) was nowhere to be seen. Mom spotted him about a year ago on the Upper West Side, where passerby were thrilled to have him in the neighborhood.

High Line visitors, too, were entertained by the paunchy white guy who wears nothing but a pair of tighty-whities. They had no problem shaking his outstretched hand, cuddling up between his flailing arms, and posing for countless pictures. So glad he's found a home.

In the absence of Sleepwalker's dog, I've been roaming the Wellesley campus, giving and getting lots of hugs of my own. In fact, I think I'm ready for the big time. NYC, one Very Big Beagle might just be headed your way!

Signs of spring popping up everywhere...time for a bath!

Clean (kind of) and more than a little wary.

I knew it was coming. For a week, I'd been avoiding going outside whenever Mom was around. What did she think, that I couldn't see the towel lurking outside the door? Smell the shampoo next to same? Not understand the word BATH, which she did not even bother to spell out?

To fully prepare, I hid in a series of closets, mooning over my fate. I plopped in the deepest dirt hole, reveling in being completely dirty.

Eventually, she caught me. Rather, my horse-and-dog-whispering sister, did so. I went to another place in my mind while she sloughed off that winter sheen (enhanced by some fervent rolling in a particularly skunky spot during my Wellesley College walk). I was sorry to see it go. Sorry to see eau of skunk replaced by aloe and oatmeal--who thought up that combo? Sorry to suffer through a vigorous toweling. Sorry enough to have to retreat to my sister's bed to recover from the trauma.

Spring does have an upside. My favorite dirt hole gets full sun. I can continue to rearrange Mom's hydrangeas. The chipmunks are ripe for chasing. My next bath will be, say, six months or so away. It's all good.

While I was sleeping...my friends published some great animal books!

I do enjoy my whale-print sheets, but as I am loathe to leave them, I'm better at getting some reading done than at tapping out book manuscripts. But I have to admit, I'm inspired by my friends...

Here's to my pals, who have managed to be far more productive than I and write some amazing animal-themed books!

Unfortunately, I never met the legendary Chief, but I heard firsthand the incredible and true tale of when he and his mom, Cheryl Lawton Malone, were loping along on Race Point Beach in Provincetown. Chief makes eye contact with a whale, Cheryl too, and therein lies the seed of an idea which is now:

Dario and the Whale. Dario's mom is a cook at The Salty Cod, so he comes back to the beach every summer. It's not easy for him to make friends, and amazingly, he and a young right whale, who is also a seasonal visitor, form a sweet friendship. Read an interview with  Cheryl here.


Fenway and Hattie. Hey, who couldn't love a Boston pup's musings on food, love, moving, food and family? Did I mention food? Fenway, a Jack Russell terrier, tells his own tale of food, moving, love and more food in this chapter book perfect for grades 3-5 by Victoria J. Coe. Mom read this in manuscript form, too, so I can vouch for its accuracy. Check out this fun interview with Vicki.

And...Teddy the Dog: Be Your Own Dog, by the hilariously funny Keri Boyle, is due in May. Preorder at my favorite bookstore, Wellesley Books, here.

Wellesley's Sleepwalker to walk the High Line in prime time

Giving Sleepwalker's dog a comforting nuzzle after he was
defaced with yellow paint on the Wellesley campus.

Tony Matelli's Sleepwalker statue, having by turns terrified, annoyed and offended Wellesley sensibilities (not mine, though--I was more interested in his canine corollary), will now stride unblinkingly up on NYC's High Line, according to the New York Times.

Readers no doubt will remember that I was one of the few unperturbed by the ghostly white, lumpy, underdressed, balding human posing in mid-step on the Wellesley College campus. I barely gave him a sniff, and the encounter went unrecorded, in the photographic sense.

Look for Sleepwalker beginning in April, when the cherry blossoms might or might not come out again. No word on whether his little dog--last seen on the Upper West Side--will accompany him.

Daisy does the polar bear plunge

Daisy takes the plunge.

The fish didn't mind having a friend in, and neither did I.

In advance of the traditional New Year's Day polar bear plunge, and fortunately just in advance of today's icy snow glop that forced me to wear my winter coat, one of my less well-behaved, but nevertheless welcome, visitors took a dip in my pond.

My personal pond, that is, not the local body of water known as Morses. This pond, while it is home to fish, frogs and the occasional turtle, is more of a watering hole for me, and this visitor--Daisy is her name--rightly treated it as such. In fact, she was so thirsty after racing around my garden that she waded in farther and farther, lapping as she went, until she was up to her neck in water and pond fish. Fortunately, they did not mind.

I was thrilled to have a playdate with Daisy, who is one of the many pups--albeit a very special one-- brought up North by Greg Mahle, the subject of local author Peter Zheutlin's book Rescue Road. I'm from the South, too, so I knew we would get along just fine.

Besides the fun, one of the best things about having Daisy over was that she made me look good. Really good. Her mom has trained champions. Dogs who understand French. Dogs who can actually dance to actual music. I can barely speak English, and I'm better at dressage than dancing.

Turns out, all I had to do to look good was to sit. I rarely sit, but I did for her. In return, I chomped down bits of string cheese. Daisy? She mostly raced about, heedless.

I'm no Christmas angel, as Mom would attest. So I will confess that I mostly sat. The rest of the time, I was inclined to knock Daisy's mom over. Given that she does not weigh much more than I do, it would have been a cinch, but I decided it wasn't worth the repercussions. If she had blue cheese, well, that would have been another story. As I'm already packing on the holiday pounds, it's something I could go for in the new year. Better than an ice cold plunge any day.

Hounding you to have the merriest Christmas ever!

Baying it loud and clear: Happy Christmas to all!

Did Jesus even drink coffee?

Ever hear the one about how Jesus went
into a Starbucks and ordered
 a double frappe macchiato?

Did snowflakes ever fall in Bethlehem? Did anyone hang ornaments on the manger?

I mean, we might as well get authentic about it...so I asked history professor dad the obvious question: might Jesus have drunk coffee?

"My guess would be...no," concluded he. Perhaps, he mused, somewhere in the Bible it mentions Jesus' dietary habits?

In the absence of such data, I say, look at someone's coffee cup collection, and you can learn volumes about them--not anything of biblical proportions, but certainly plenty.

Mine, for example, includes souvenirs from the Rivers Music School; Boston College; that Jersey Shore institution, Ron Jon's; the Volvo place; Rensselaer, alma mater of my sister; and a red-banded cup from the Wellesley Education Foundation's spelling bee.

Nothing religious about them, unless you consider Dad's fanaticism about the Boston College Eagles football team, which could use a bit of prayer right now.

Arrrrgh! Raking up some booty in Wellesley Square

Testing my sea legs--and some fine Halloween treats.

Missed The Dogist Halloween photo shoot --and my chance at fame -- at Wellesley Books in the Square today, all because Mom and Dad were watching former Raider John Fadule give the Boston College Eagles football team more forward mo than they've had all season.

So I hoisted sail and tacked on over after the game, hoping for some booty. Like any seasoned pirate, I found it, of course.   First, at the bookstore, my customary treat and a photo of me in my seagoing gear. Apparently, my landlubber parents still consider me a scalawag, although a pirate has a bit more leeway in life than the prisoner I was doomed to role-play after my all-too-short-lived escape last year.

So, I sailed northward to Petco Unleashed, where I found me another pirate dog, and he was none too pleased to have a rival. It was all "arrgh!" this and "arrgh!" that, which was totally unnecessary as I outweighed him by more than a few stone, and could have tossed him into the deep without getting any sea spray on my pantaloons.

But I was patient, gave him a wide berth, and soon he shoved off, sensing that my said patience was wearing thin. So quickly, indeed, that he be forgetting his treasure. Not me. Oh, no, matey.
I made off with a big bag o'Halloween treats, and didn't have to play a single trick. Ahoy there, and Happy Halloween!

You can have it all: Wellesley AND Portofino!

The Wellesley at anchor in Portofino.
http://www.charterworld.com/index.html?sub=gallery&image=7112-18

Ever since Mom got back from her way-too-long summer stay on the Italian Riviera, that's all she can talk about: Portofino, Portofino, Portofino.

It's driving me more than a little pazzo, if you get my Italian.

Well, I've done some research, and it turns out she really can have it all. It just so happens that there is a yacht named Wellesley. The Wellesley, in fact. Not only is it a sweet little number at 100-plus feet long, it docks in that snug little harbor, possibly the most beautiful place on earth and, by the way, home to both Dolce and Gabbana. And if you have to ask who they are, well...then maybe Portofino is not the place for you.

Missed Dolce & Gabbana's
Alta Moda show in Portofino this summer?
Too bad for you.

Winter rates on The Wellesley start at upwards $60,000--per week. She has a full-time crew of five (they have a separate, entrance to their below-decks quarters), and her myriad of staterooms and en-suite baths can handle a dozen guests, who can lounge in the Jacuzzi, sun on the deck, be lowered on the hydraulic platform to go for a swim, or play with the yacht's "toys"--inflatable stand-up paddleboards and waterski equipment.

But what else would you expect when you have the best of both worlds? Just don't forget your Alta Moda wardrobe. D&G will be expecting you.

HGTV/DIY/Houzz mania leaves me sleepless

Next project: Turf in the family room?

Not so slowly, but surely, I'm being HGTV'd and DIY'd and Houzzed out of room after room after room. Mom doesn't even watch TV, but somehow she's decided that all of my favorite sleeping places needed some freshening. So every room's been getting the makeover, and where does that leave me?

Let me count the insults:

1. Barricaded out of last winter's project, the living room. I've been sneaking in there whenever I get the chance, and now there's a pretty effective barricade of baby gates threaded together with bungee cords. Very DIY. Not very HGTV. Definitely not Houzz-worthy, which featured a nifty pull-out drawer with a dog bed in the laundry room.
2. Permitted only in my sleeping closet in my sister's bedroom (last summer's project). Mom sewed up a storm, refinished a headboard, and bought plenty of white linens. The meaning was clear: no dirty hounds allowed. What hound isn't dirty, I ask? Guess that's what the laundry room dog bed is for.
3. Unceremoniously and literally dumped from the mattress in what I've always considered to be my very own room, but which needs to become a guest room in a couple of weeks. Mom's decided our guests are too fancy for a simple double bed; they're getting the queen treatment. I'm the king, I protested, but that argument went nowhere.

I don't know how she plans to keep me out of there, but even if she succeeds, I know there's always one place I can sleep: on my parents' bed.

Retired postal worker still a favorite

B.T. —always a reliable source for sustenance.

B.T. wasn't even our letter carrier--just drove one of the trucks that was on my walking route--which covers a bunch of neighborhoods. Whenever I heard his truck, I came running, much to the chagrin of my folks, who aren't fond of strained arm muscles and skinned knees.

B.T. retired sometime in early summer, and while I perked up my considerable ears every time I heard his truck, he, his friendly greeting—"Tucker, where've you been? Sleeping?"— and his treats, were not there. I gave up.

Now, I've never been interested in any other mail truck. I walk all over the place, and ignore any mail carrier--unlike my neighbor Charlie, who can't wait to get a piece of one. It's a good thing that the mailboxes are clustered in our neighborhood, rather than in front of our houses, otherwise poor Charlie would probably have a heart attack.

So I was out walking yesterday, when suddenly, I heard it: B.T.'s truck! I zoomed over, only to find—no B.T. Savvy Mom asks, in between gasps of much-needed oxygen, "Was this B.T.'s truck?" Indeed it was. "They're all the same," says the postal worker, clearly not impressed. But no. They are not all the same. B.T.'s truck had a special sound. And B.T. was special. I miss him.

La dolce vita for hounds: Italy

Dogs have a special place in the heart of Italians—especially hounds.

From the mountains in the north to the Italian Riviera to the groves of Tuscany, the country teems with teeny Italian greyhounds and spunky daschunds. At least, that's what Mom tells me, because somehow, she left me behind when she and the famiglia went to the old country.

Anyway, she took some pix of the bigger varieties just to give me the idea of what I might have encountered had I had my own passport:

Rocking a nap outside the Duomo in Firenze.

Checking for traffic on a Venice canal near Mom's favorite
place for cichetti and spritz.

I cani guarding a villa in the village of Bedonia in the mountains.