This New Year's Eve party starts early: Boston College vs. Arizona in the Advocare V100 Bowl

No sitting is allowed during any Boston College
football game in our house, so I'm giving my famous
Andre Williams-like glutes advance rest.

Slept for 24 hours straight after my three-day party over at Southboro Kennels. Mary warned my family that I tuckered myself out zooming around with those border collies, but they weren't quite prepared for the depths of my exhaustion.

Got home and immediately crept into bed, where I did not stir for an entire day, except for a two-minute break the next afternoon to gobble some food and slink back into my chair for a few more hours. I basically must have sleepwalked to my bowl and back.

Good thing, though, because now I'm all rested up for the big Boston College New Year's Eve bowl game. Huge is the theme. It's huge that BC's going to a bowl after last year's disastrous season; Dad's a huge fan of BC football and new AD Brad Bates; Mom recently got to size herself next to some football players at an esoteric medieval choral performance in Gasson Hall (Really! All three of my Dad's football playing students attended the optional concert. Her take: "they're huge!"); plus, my huge glutes have been favorably compared to those of Heisman finalist Andre Williams (just call me Tucker44).

So, who's ready for a New Year's Eve party? The one to catch is in Shreveport, La. and at my lovely Wellesley home. The one with the huge BC flag out front.

Go Eagles!

If sitting is bad for you, what does that mean for writers?

Do not disturb.

Here's what I'm wondering: if sitting is bad for you, does that make writers at risk for living shorter lives? As a writer, I have an interest in this topic.

Yet, despite the photo in my last blog post, I rarely sit. So rarely, in fact, that my family takes note of it. "He's sitting!" they'll exclaim, and take a picture.

The only time they don't remark, or exclaim, or do anything but sigh, loudly and persistently, is when I perform my signature move: the Plop of Doom. It's not really a sit at all, more like a statement: "I'm not going where you want me to go. So there. Make me move. Just try. You'll end up giving in sooner or later."

Sit. It's one of the first things that humans like to teach a dog. Of course, we've already learned plenty by the time they even try anything. I do a grudging version of sit when they present my food—actually, it's more like a plie, because I never seem to make it all the way down. By then, they're just so exhausted by my baying that they give in. What, really, do they expect? They ask me if I'm hungry, and I tell them.

Sparky, in contrast, would sit patiently near his empty bowl for his food, so predictably that my sister put up a sign over it reading "Order Line."

So it turns out, perhaps not surprisingly, that sitting is bad for you. And even walking a ton (Dad, who does a lot of sitting, writing and reading, does up to 7 miles a day), does not offset sitting. Which leads to the question: should all writers take up the habits of hounds? Or get desk treadmills?

But here's another question for the researchers: if sitting is bad for you, what about sleeping? Is sleeping bad for you? Because the answer to that would really pique my interest. Let me know—after I wake up.

Dog attacked at Wellesley College

Me pre-attack. I'd rather run around like a wild thing,
but I get that a leash keeps me, and others, safe.

The subject of this headline? That would be me.

Before I go into details, I must thank the man who saved my life. Not only did was he able to somehow unlock the attacking dog's death grip on my neck, he managed to hold onto his Bernese Mountain Dog at the same time.

His dog, I add, was on a leash.

Thanks to you, man of Bernese, I live. And I could not be more grateful. But for those who did not witness this attack, let me backtrack.

Saturday. A gorgeous day. My family and I, fresh off Boston College's extremely satisfying win over Virginia Tech, head out to the college for a walk. It's after 5 p.m., the weather soft and warm, the fall leaves glorious. I'm trekking along the path from the boathouse toward Green Beach. It's narrow there, where the "spoon-holders" attract those entranced by the view. I spot the Bernese, and I start to bay. Loudly.

I have this thing about large, furry creatures. I make a lot of noise when I see them, and I do need to be held. Not that I would do anything, but still. It's unseemly.

Dad was holding me, admirably. Having had my strength and doggedness favorably compared with that of BC running back Andre Williams, I know it's not easy to keep me back. Guess that's what the leash is for.

So Dad and I are about to move on, when suddenly this muscly, tan, shorthaired beast—and I mean beast—comes out of nowhere, clamps onto my neck and will not let go. Will not. He's all over me. I can't move. Things are not looking good. At all.

The beast, I perhaps unnecessarily add, is not on a leash. His owner? I can't even see her. The Bernese Man resolutely, firmly, bravely gets his own grip on the back of the beast's neck and begins to detach him, bit by painful bit. Dad assists. Mom holds down my skin so it stays on my body, and somehow I am free.

Wounded, you might ask?

Let's just say that, were I Boston College #44, I wouldn't be starting in next week's game.

Happy Halloween, Disney style

What, you were expecting Sleeping Beauty? Actually, after this exhausting
All Hallows' Eve,  I could use a nap.

Best books for baby princes and princesses

I've been taking a technology hiatus of late—I mean, does everything I do require some sort of electronic device?—and so I've been reviewing some old technology. Specifically, print. You remember. On actual paper.

My predecessor Sparky digested a vast number of reading materials. I'm more the browsing type. So my favs need to be short, super engaging, and appealing to frisky young pups.

Herewith, then, my recommendations for Will and Kate's royal babe.

#1. Archie, by Domenica More Gordon. Surely, there must be someone named Archie in the royal household who would be only too happy to whip up bespoke outfits for princely pups? And could this book be any more adorable? I think not.

Archie is a talented hound who receives an unusual gift from his auntie—a sewing machine. Soon, his creations adorn pups and owners all over town. He's just ready to take a well-deserved vacation when he gets a call direct from the palace. We'll just say that baby Windsor will surely coo at the sight of his or her great-grandmama. Plus, the kits the author sells to make fuzzy pups might give Princess Kate something to focus on besides her morning sickness.

#2. All the World by Liz Garton Scanlon. A dog is part of the fascinating group of interesting people whose lives intersect during one perfect day by the sea—biking, marketing, escaping a sudden rainshower, and meeting up to enjoy the evening. A lovely read just before sleep and a solid slice of real life for the royal baby.

#3. Speaking of sleep, my favorite activity, I simply adore Leave Your Sleep by Natalie Merchant. Some time ago Merchant set classic poems to music and released a CD. This volume includes the CD; gorgeous illustrations by Barbara McClintock imbue the poems with a lovely sense of classic fantasy. It's a must for any nursery.

Yes, speaking of sleep...

Boston Marathon: to run or not to run was never a question

My marathon nap training program.

It was the question on Mom's mind all weekend, and after much to-ing and fro-ing (well, after Dad said it was absolutely not a good idea) she decided to defer her entry into the 116th Boston Marathon until next year.
About 400 other runners did, too, plus whomever just decided not to pick up their race number. It was a tough one: after all that training, all those missed walks for me and lack of attention, to not touch one's toe to either the start or finish?
Me, it was simple: I stayed home, where I stayed hydrated, rested, and air-conditioned. Nice.

Naptime, interrupted

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.

Barkitecture: dream doghouses

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.

Earthshaking news happened while I was sleeping

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

I’ve been to London to visit the Queen…

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.

Waking up is hard to do

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?

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.

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

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.

Sneaky, surreptitious, or just napping? You decide

So, when my parents came home from the pre-Cotillion party and left me behind, did they expect to see me bounding downstairs, wagging my tail and just overjoyed that they deigned to return and keep me company?

Apparently, I couldn't be found. What is this, Goldie Foxhound and The Three Bears in reverse? Someone would come in and steal just me (precious though I am)? Didn't they check all the beds?

They said they did. I wasn't in: the guest room (Grandma left today); the beanbag in the study; my sister's bed; my parents' bed; the living room; my chair; my $100 avoidance chamber (the crate). Precious things, they panicked!

Moms, however, keep clear heads in times of emergency. She uttered my favorite word, car of course, and out I came from my hiding place. I wish to keep that secret.

Speaking of secrets, was I being sneaky? That is, defined as furtive, or sly? Covert? Clandestine? Stealthy?

Surreptitious? Meaning my hiding spot was kept secret, connoting guilt, because it wouldn't be approved of? (That couldn't possibly be. What haven't they allowed?)

Or was I just napping, resting, dormant, or relaxed?

Fall forward! Spring back!

My dad can be a tad contrary. It's mostly a good thing. Mom says that because he thinks differently than most, he's able to be creative. That's when she's feeling generous. Other times, she has been known to accuse him of having uncommon sense. Because after all, what's common about him?

So it makes perfect sense for our rather special family to be confused about Daylight Savings Time. Once, when Dad visited a nursing home, a resident asked which way to change the clock. "Fall forward," Dad said, and impressed by his great confidence, the poor woman ended up being two hours out of whack.

Twice a year, we rely on Grandma to set us straight. Hope she calls tomorrow! Of course, I have my own very reliable internal clock. But, just to support my dad, I'll use the confusion as an excuse to get some extra shuteye. Sweet dreams!

The Swellesley Inn: hotel for dogs?

Time for me to make a reservation for my own room, or so it seems. No sooner did Grandma finish up her visit than our cousins booked the place for the weekend.

What is this, a revolving door? A B&B? All Mom does now is bake muffins and wash bedding. It's ridiculous. What I want is a dedicated sleeping spot, and so I proved my point this week. First, I pouted in my beanbag. And I mean in.

Next, I took advantage of the guest-ready parlor (parlance for small living room just right for some good sleeping) and snuggled on the loveseat (white). However, I was not there long enough to pose for a photo.

Then, just as Mom was about to do more bedding, I scored the down comforter as I came back from my marathon walk. Notice I do look a bit embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough to move. In fact, thanks to the laptop, I still haven't gotten up.

Sleep deprivation: threat or menace?

What does it take to get some shuteye around here? I'm exhausted. Grandma has been visiting, and that means I've been kicked out of my room.

You know what it's like to have to sleep on the couch when visitors come? That's what I'm going through. The door to my room remains shut tight. No Tuckers allowed. I've been moping around, looking as morose as possible, hoping someone will take pity on me.

No such luck.

Instead, Grandma blames my depression on meeting some lower-class dogs at the Medway dog park, where I have just gained admission (I actually had a great time. More on that later, when I'm feeling better.). Why she persists in this erroneous line of thinking, I do not know.

So, it's from the beanbag to the crate, the chair in Mom and Dad's room, the sleeping cushion in the family room, my sister's bed...I just keep switching from place to place, disoriented, practically falling to pieces.

As Mom learned from Ashley Merryman's visit to Wellesley this week, she of the book Nurture Shock, sleep deprivation is cumulative; after a week of losing an hour's sleep a night, you've lost a whole night! Grandma's visiting for a whole week. How much is that in dog years?