Lost a budgie? He's at our birdfeeder

This budgie seems awfully hungry--he was moving
too fast for my camera. Then again, I'm a lousy picture taker.

Our friend Paul calls Mom "Dr. Doolittle" because she's always finding or rescuing animals. On Sunday, she found a rangy white dog loping around the Lasell College campus. He wasn't the kind you'd want to talk to, being rather aggressive, so Mom called campus police to help.

Unfortunately, after 18 minutes of waiting and keeping an eye out so the big scary guy wouldn't bite anyone or get run over by a car, said big scary dog loped away before police showed up.

I'm not the best at taking photos, and I really don't care a whole lot about birds, but I always like to see a pet find its home. Today, this buderigar showed up at our feeder, and since this species hails from Australia, I guess he's someone's pet. So if you're missing a pretty sky blue budgie, check in with Wellesley Animal Control. They'll know how to get in touch with me. I'd lend this bird my crate, but I have a feeling it's a tad too big.

Shackled again: house arrest diary, day 34

Unrelenting in my search-and-destroy chipmunk mission, I am a blur
of activity in the early a.m. You remember: "Early to bed, early to rise..."

I'm not going to begin the official countdown until day 40, but the terms of my release have been straitened by the removal of the yellowjacket nest. Indeed, they were yellowjackets, not cicada killers, which hunt alone. No, the source of my wasp sting lay underneath the honeysuckle bush.

In case you were wondering, I did not misspell the word straightened. In fact, the word I used, straitened, is not only spelled correctly, it has a completely different meaning from straightened. I mean to say that my confines were further restricted (i.e., straitened, meaning narrowed in scope or range) by the discovery of said nest, and the removal of it. The bee-suited man from Waltham Pest Control explained that the foraging bees would be searching, fruitlessly, for their doomed, rather extensive three-tiered abode, and therefore buzzing angrily in the area in which I most like to pancake.

In other words: no going out in the garden.

You know, this whole problem might never have happened had it not been for chipmunks. I diligently hunt these tiny beasts, and attempt to dig them up, but so far my efforts have been as fruitless as those homeless foraging stinging things.

Mom read that yellowjackets are kind of lazy diggers, and so take advantage of holes already in the ground, like those left by planting shrubs...or by pesky chipmunks.

So, neighbors, please understand: my a.m. baying serves two purposes. One, to warn you of pesky chipmunks. They indeed are in the vicinity. Two, to frighten chipmunks away, in case some yellowjackets decide to move in. Both are known to be dangerous. Cave vespula (beware of yellowjacket). Cave tamias striatus (chipmunk). But don't cave canem, at least not of me. Despite having to serve time, I'm perfectly harmless.

Weekends with Daisy is out, and I'm in the doghouse

Daisy would  never be allowed to lounge in a chair in real life,
so I'm giving her some virtual space in my living room.

"Daisy would never do that," I can feel Mom thinking as I bay up a storm, impatient for the day's walk—no, romp—to start. Already I've been waiting, while Dad makes his traditional Saturday blueberry pancakes and Mom has at least two cups of coffee. I have my own Saturday traditions: jumping on and off the bed, just to make sure Mom is still alive.

Ever since this Daisy came into her life, via Sharron Kahn Luttrell's memoir, Weekends with Daisy, of training a pup to help disabled people, Mom has been comparing me to this stellar example of canine virtue. Look, I know all about behaving. It's just that, true to my nickname, Tuckerby, I prefer not to. I'm bigger than Mom and more stubborn than all get-out, so I just plain win. Pretty much all the time.

Now, I could write my own memoir, but it would be all about training your parents, not your dog. Training the Tucker Way: How to Have the Parents You've Always Wanted would include all of the excellent tips I've shared on my blog, plus some top-secret methods only revealed to my closest friends. I wouldn't dare tell Daisy, were I lucky enough to meet her.

That would not be gentlemanly, and no matter how much I misbehave, I remain a southern gentleman at heart.

Check out the book. You'll be glad you did. Also, you might check out my interview with Sharron about the joys and challenges of having Daisy in her life.

Attacked by cicada killers!

The perpetrator: cicada killer wasp.
Photo by Fritz Geller-Grimm
via Wikimedia Commons

A typical summer afternoon: hot and sunny. I pancaked myself in the only spot of full sun on our practically bare, dry grass (Mom doesn't believe in watering it) by the pond and snoozed. I bothered no one, or so I thought.

A wasp thought otherwise. Perhaps my bulk was in the way. Perhaps the wasp mistook me for a giant cicada. In any case, I did not deserve to be 1) woken up; 2) assaulted; 3) left in great pain for some time.

The female Bembix americana apparently stings a cicada and paralyzes it, then manages to fly it into its burrow, then lays an egg on it (or them--sometimes she will stuff two or three) and closes up the burrow with dirt. When the egg hatches, there's plenty of food for it. "Nests often are made in the full sun where vegetation is sparse," says Wikipedia.

Note to Mom: do more watering.

Fortunately, the wasp did not attempt to drag me into its burrow. However, when Mom tried to revive her dying plants by finally turning on the hose a couple of days later, she, too, was stung. Which is really too bad, because she's allergic, and this one little pinch put her in a stupor for days.

 Wikipedia's sources claim that these cicada killers "do not land on people and attempt to sting." Well, I guess they don't attempt, they simply achieve. Nowhere, however, was there mention of these vicious killers' completely unjustified attacks on the canine species. Just one more reason not to trust Wikipedia. And to keep a nice, green, lush, lawn.

What I did on National Dog Day

Not to be nosy, but don't you think it's time to adopt another pup?

1. To make sure my parents started the day in complete agreement that adopting me was the absolute best thing that ever happened to them, I let them sleep in.
2. Bolted like a madman through Hunnewell Woods.
3. Slept.
4. Slept.
5. Woke up to eat.
6. Slept.
7. I must have been sleepy, because I got suckered into looking at cute dog pix on the Huffington Post National Dog Day gallery. I'm not usually that sentimental.
8. Slept, grateful that I'm no longer in a shelter, and thinking of all those pups in need of homes.

Best ice cream in the country? Find it at Sunshine Dairy in Sherborn

Taking in the country air at Sunshine Dairy in Sherborn.

I'm a country boy by birth, so I appreciated escaping from the confines of my "strict confinement" in Wellesley and trucking it out to Sherborn, past the llamas at Iron Horse Farm and the horses at Sweet Meadow Farm.

I'm famous for not getting out of the car during these evening sojourns, but Sunshine Dairy's country air was too tempting to resist. So rather than slinking back into the dark recesses of the wagon, I uncharacteristically leapt out to explore.

Mom and Dad have been going to Sunshine Dairy for a quarter-century, Mom for the frozen yogurt, Dad for whatever ice cream sounds the weirdest. After my sister came along, they'd ride out on a summer night, but recalcitrant like me, she would never order anything. So there they'd be, slurping their cones, with a toddler saying "no, thank you" to ice cream. She definitely was the first Bartleby in our family (the reference is to the law clerk who would "prefer not to" in the Melville story).

Hoping Dad remembers to place my order.

Though I am known to my family variously as "The Beast" (for obvious reasons) and "Tuckerby," (for my oft-exhibited recalcitrant behavior a la Bartleby)  I would never prefer not to eat ice cream. 

Everything turned out to be uncharacteristic at Sunshine. Besides me getting out of the car,  my parents ordered opposite their usual way. Dad had the ordinary-sounding strawberry, but he reported it had real strawberries and no fake coloring; Mom had cherry chip yogurt with actual cherries. I only got the drips, but they were delicious.

House arrest diary, day 12: a smelly roll that was worth a bath (almost)

Zooming right toward my dirt pile after my bath.

I head to Morses Pond via the aqueduct while Mom keeps on the lookout for off-leash dogs. On the way, she meets (but I don't) a cute lab-hound puppy named Dude, our new neighbor. Can't wait to be able to play with him...once I get the electronic ankle bracelet off, I mean. You'd think I was the one who transgressed.

As for my bite wound, thanks for asking. It's healing nicely and my hair is growing back.

For once, I don't push my luck and insist on going to SmartPak. We struggle through the sidewalk weeds and rubble along Rte. 9 past the CVS construction site. Mom and Dad wish for the umpteenth time that Wellesley would have the new CVS, the Dunkin' Donuts, the Volvo place and Jarvis put in some sort of walking path behind their businesses so that we don't have to worry about getting run over.

We safely trot over to the town beach, where I check out the dock and threaten to jump off. Just kidding! Then, while Mom is chatting with some former students, I find this awesome smelly patch and roll madly. Really madly. Hysterically madly. I'm so covered in this great odor that it challenges the car exhaust on the way home.

Click. That's the gate, and I'm trapped within the confines of my yard. Mom's got the shampoo out (really, lavender?) and the warm water ready, so I play like I'm a horse and just get through it. When she realizes she forgot my towel, I see my opportunity and take off, heading straight toward my dirt pile where I romp it up. I'm pretending to dig for chipmunks, but I'm just throwing dirt around for the fun of it. I race around maniacally, then pop open the door and continue my hijinks inside.

Let me tell you, if I wasn't in the doghouse before, I am now. Worth it? Oh, yeah.