Mom's Jersey Shore

The beach where Mom grew up.

I've been resting my writing chops while Mom took herself, and her computer, off to the Jersey shore to visit Great-Grandma. Locals, of course, never call it "The Shore." To them, it's simply the beach, and all one has to do is head east a bit to get there. All roads lead to the beach, and it's take your pick for miles and miles. Thanks to the generosity of the U.S. of A., tons of sand have been added to the once-eroded strand, and it's quite lovely. The jetties are remnants of a long-ago experiment to keep sand from shifting north toward Sandy Hook.

After a long run from Spring Lake to Asbury Park and back, along a glorious stretch of boardwalk and ocean, Mom warmed up at a family friend's sublime Belmar coffee shop, Turnstile. I doubt Mike and co. would allow dogs in there, but I'll bet he could be persuaded to put a water bowl outside. Just the thing one would need after too much salt water.  Or too much "Jersey Shore."

I'm on WBUR!

OK, so I didn't write the winning essay for RadioBoston's and The Drum Literary Magazine's Zip-Code Stories (Mom did) but I do have a significant presence in the actual essay and in the interview that aired this afternoon on WBUR. Let's just say Mom should be ashamed that she leaves me behind when she goes ice skating on Morses Pond (MoPo to us insiders). At least I was quoted high up in the piece. Plus she threw in a plug for my blog.

After all, one could hardly discuss 02482 without mentioning moi.  I'm quite the celeb and expect concomitant treatment. For example, I shove my way right into the offices at Wellesley Books and my nose right into the copious dog biscuit bins, and they still let me in. I could argue that I help sell dog books, as today I planted myself right in front of the excellent display, conveniently located within reach of the treat bin.

Concomitant. There's a word you don't run across every day. Therefore, I shall provide the definition: as an adjective, naturally accompanying or associated with. But I like the noun form: a phenomenon that naturally follows or is associated with something. That's me: a phenomenon, and I certainly and naturally accompany Mom wherever (almost) she goes.

Have a listen here.  Unfortunately, a recording of my resounding bays would have blown out the mikes, so one must imagine them instead.

Super Bowl dog commercials: to VW go the spoils!

I'm not much of a football fan once Boston College finishes its season (this year a tough one for the Eagles) but I belly up to the TV for Super Bowl commercials.

This year—and I'm writing at the half, because I can't lose too much sleep over vapid talking baby spots, violent action movie trailers and all the other predictable ads that make one's eyes glaze over—I was pleased to see a significant number of commercials with canine stars.

My favorite so far? The VW Beetle ad, in which an overweight golden slims down through a tough regimen of pool swimming, running, and stair work, and then glides through the air, a trimmer, stylish creature, much like the car. Mom's first car was a yellow Beetle, the original kind, so perhaps I'm partial. Or perhaps it's because I've had my own weight issues.

Speaking of, I weighed in at a record low of 84.4 lbs at the vet's last week.

Wait til next year: my distinctive voice will join this choir.

Just peeked to see what else will air (see all the videos here) and loved the dogs barking to the Darth Vader theme. Halloween costume idea! Note to VW: a foxhound bay could somehow be written in, and I know just the guy for the job.

I appreciated the stately Dalmatian on the Budweiser wagon, although the faux motion picture treatment was bland; I was almost there with the Doritos' Great Dane, but found the ending too pat; and sorry, but greyhound racing is so not OK, Skechers. Plus, pugs are so several years ago. As for the Suzuki ads, you how I feel about huskies.

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.

Make the punishment fit the crime? As in smaller bowl? No way!

Hilarious, no? No.

While Mom must think so (thanks to the super creative Heather Kelly, for the terrific wanted poster idea), my caloric intake is no laughing matter. A dog must eat, and eat well. Often, too.

Exhibits A and B. While the evidence seems irrefutable,

I believe it to be circumstantial. I'd never eat from a plastic receptacle.

The penultimate* time I destroyed the cup my folks use to retrieve my food, my portions became noticeably smaller. While that was good news to the people at VCA Westboro (after they airlifted me onto the scale) to me, it fell into the criminal realm. Last time someone manhandled me like that, I made sure their back hurt, and good. However, that episode ended up with me being placed on lifetime probation from those particular canine accommodations.

Obviously, a jury should consider mitigating circumstances: in this case, hunger. However, said good man and woman seem to be unmoved.

Therefore, I'll simply have to eat right out of the bin. Case closed.

*Bonus intangible reward to those who do not need to look up the definition of penultimate. I'm far too ravenous to be your dictionary today.

Shark attack! See the video!

It's usually not a good sign when you see something floating that's supposed to be swimming. So when Mom peeked into my sister's room yesterday and noticed her helium-filled, remote control shark cruising along the ceiling–with no one at the controls, she did a double-take.

Then, she collared the culprit. The evidence was all too obvious: body parts ripped off, torn, thrown carelessly around. "Tuck-errrr..."

Yep. I did it in a fit of pique. My sister's back at college, and the C-A-R was leaving, without me in it. After making my expected forlorn appearance at the window, I trucked up the stairs and headed right for the shark, intent on revenge.

Listen, I could have torn the thing to bloody bits. Instead, I made it a nice repair challenge for my handy sis. Let's see whether she's able to get that thing to fly again...I mean swim.

A dog wins the 2012 Caldecott!

I've loved, lost and destroyed plenty of toys in my time, and no one thought to write a book about moi. 
("Actually," says Mom, "I have...but no one's published it...yet.")

So I might be a tad jealous that a scruffy little pup is the subject of this year's Randolph Caldecott Award for the most distinguished American picture book for children.

However, my readers know me to be rather discerning when it comes to picture books, and dog books in particular. They must be honest. They must be extraordinarily well done. They must touch some part of my doggy soul.

Alas, dear reader, this book, while true enough in story, neither touches my soul or seems well done enough to merit this medal.

I like whimsical, expressive artwork and appreciated it in The Hello, Goodbye Window, for which Raschka won the Caldecott in 2006. But I don't like sloppy. The Caldecott committee chair called the illustrations "deceptively simple." I'm not deceived: many of the illustrations are not simple. The ones that look simple, however, are brilliant. The others...well...are sloppy.

Daisy is adorably portrayed in her scruffiness (although I of course am far more handsome), yet I am surprised the book's creator was happy with the panels in which Daisy sinks miserably into the family couch. I was confused by the depiction of Daisy's human—she looked different each time she was portrayed.

The story itself was fine: dog gets ball, dog destroys ball, dog gets new ball. Best wishes to Daisy, but it's not a book I can really chew on.