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!