HGTV/DIY/Houzz mania leaves me sleepless

Next project: Turf in the family room?

Not so slowly, but surely, I'm being HGTV'd and DIY'd and Houzzed out of room after room after room. Mom doesn't even watch TV, but somehow she's decided that all of my favorite sleeping places needed some freshening. So every room's been getting the makeover, and where does that leave me?

Let me count the insults:

1. Barricaded out of last winter's project, the living room. I've been sneaking in there whenever I get the chance, and now there's a pretty effective barricade of baby gates threaded together with bungee cords. Very DIY. Not very HGTV. Definitely not Houzz-worthy, which featured a nifty pull-out drawer with a dog bed in the laundry room.
2. Permitted only in my sleeping closet in my sister's bedroom (last summer's project). Mom sewed up a storm, refinished a headboard, and bought plenty of white linens. The meaning was clear: no dirty hounds allowed. What hound isn't dirty, I ask? Guess that's what the laundry room dog bed is for.
3. Unceremoniously and literally dumped from the mattress in what I've always considered to be my very own room, but which needs to become a guest room in a couple of weeks. Mom's decided our guests are too fancy for a simple double bed; they're getting the queen treatment. I'm the king, I protested, but that argument went nowhere.

I don't know how she plans to keep me out of there, but even if she succeeds, I know there's always one place I can sleep: on my parents' bed.

Retired postal worker still a favorite

B.T. —always a reliable source for sustenance.

B.T. wasn't even our letter carrier--just drove one of the trucks that was on my walking route--which covers a bunch of neighborhoods. Whenever I heard his truck, I came running, much to the chagrin of my folks, who aren't fond of strained arm muscles and skinned knees.

B.T. retired sometime in early summer, and while I perked up my considerable ears every time I heard his truck, he, his friendly greeting—"Tucker, where've you been? Sleeping?"— and his treats, were not there. I gave up.

Now, I've never been interested in any other mail truck. I walk all over the place, and ignore any mail carrier--unlike my neighbor Charlie, who can't wait to get a piece of one. It's a good thing that the mailboxes are clustered in our neighborhood, rather than in front of our houses, otherwise poor Charlie would probably have a heart attack.

So I was out walking yesterday, when suddenly, I heard it: B.T.'s truck! I zoomed over, only to find—no B.T. Savvy Mom asks, in between gasps of much-needed oxygen, "Was this B.T.'s truck?" Indeed it was. "They're all the same," says the postal worker, clearly not impressed. But no. They are not all the same. B.T.'s truck had a special sound. And B.T. was special. I miss him.

La dolce vita for hounds: Italy

Dogs have a special place in the heart of Italians—especially hounds.

From the mountains in the north to the Italian Riviera to the groves of Tuscany, the country teems with teeny Italian greyhounds and spunky daschunds. At least, that's what Mom tells me, because somehow, she left me behind when she and the famiglia went to the old country.

Anyway, she took some pix of the bigger varieties just to give me the idea of what I might have encountered had I had my own passport:

Rocking a nap outside the Duomo in Firenze.

Checking for traffic on a Venice canal near Mom's favorite
place for cichetti and spritz.

I cani guarding a villa in the village of Bedonia in the mountains.

The Divine Miss M and I: she loves me (and I confess I feel the same)!

Feeling a bit lovesick now that the
Divine Miss M has returned to her home state.

Everywhere, it seems, there are babies. Out the window, the cardinal babies cry for food. So do the downy woodpecker babies, the oriole baby (just one so far), the starling babies, the sparrow babies. You get the idea. We've also got baby chipmunks (grr!) and baby squirrels.

So it wasn't surprising when a human baby showed up. This one, a 10-month-old I'm calling the Divine Miss M because she certainly comported herself like an angel, became an inside pet for a day or so. A stay too brief, it turns out. Anyway, every time I came near, she shrieked, just beside herself with delight.

That is not the usual reaction humans have to me. I mean, I get lots of compliments on my size, handsome appearance, and voice. But delighted shrieking? Atypical.

So of course I fell in love with her, immediately, and she with me.

Her behavior since meeting me, her mother reports, has been a bit over the top. She's taken an interest in the stuffed puppy she formerly ignored, resorted to stealing another's and absconding with same, and scopes out each dog she comes across, I assume in a desperate search for me.

My behavior? Without Miss M, I've been feeling a bit low. Being adored is pretty nice. So today, make sure you tell someone you love them.

Forget the South Beach diet: it's the London (broil) diet for me

This diet worked so well that my body practically disappeared!

Those folks across the pond have it down, that's for sure.

"Is London broil OK?" the deli guy asked my mom.

London broil, I can tell you, absolutely is ok.

I've been getting the pampered treatment lately, and boy, do I deserve it.

I've got about 25 staples in my back, another few in my armpit (I can't see them, so they remain uncounted) and a nasty limp as a leftover from an intravenous feed--phlebitis, apparently. All I know is that it hurts.

My neighbors probably all have been late for work this last week or so, as I haven't been up to the task of waking them all up. I've been so knocked out by surgery that I've barely said a word.
(A word to you dog owners: get all of those lumps and bumps checked. Some of them aren't just extra pudge. That was the case with me. )

Lest you fear for my welfare,  the doc at IVG in Natick thinks I'm going to be A-OK. I'll just make sure she insists on some roast beef in my regular diet from now on.

Here's the deal: all that extra protein must be working. Today, mom decided it was time for me to reenter society. When she actually said the entire word usually spoken as C-A-R, I practically knocked her over.

That's not hard to do, because she's still limping from the Boston Marathon. I mean, get over it already. I'm so over having matching limps.

Neighbors, throw out your alarm clocks. I"m back!
---
In case you were wondering about the origin of the term "London broil," this way of cooking and serving beef appears to have nothing at all to do with London. Apparently the method is an American invention and is not found in British cookbooks. Thank goodness I'm an American, not English, hound!

Let sleeping dogs...

So I'm out on my usual walk, take my usual roll or two in the long grass—it feels really good on my back—and snatch the opportunity for a short nap.

Mom, who's been hobbling ever since the Boston Marathon, is exhausted at this point in the 3-mile loop. She plops down next to me, so of course I pop right up, if only to give her a little more exercise.

We trundle off toward home, when a neighbor drives by.

"Is your dog OK?" she asks Mom.

Huh?

"He was lying down, and I wondered if he was sick or something," she said. "I thought he might need a ride home."

If anyone needed a ride home, it was Mom, I would have said, but I was already off, running like the wind. Too bad there's not a Boston Marathon for dogs.

Wellesley Strong!

Thought you heard sirens on Washington St. Sat. a.m.?
No, that was just me, singing away.

I showed up to add a little life to the Wellesley Strong photo shoot on Saturday morning. It was a gorgeous day, and I bayed up a storm just to keep things interesting.

I foresee a new career: making sure everyone's smiling at whatever event causes one to hire a photog. Preferably an outdoor event--earplugs might interfere with guests' fashion statements.

Thanks to Elaine Marten for organizing this opportunity to show our community support for our marathon runners! Thanks to Maura Wayman for laughing at my antics, not being startled off her ladder, and for her great photographs!

Make sure you're out on the course tomorrow, cheering on the runners in the rain! Unfortunately, I have an important sleeping engagement and will miss the race.