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

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!

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!

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!

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

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

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

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.