Born to run...and then to sleep

Proper rest is important during the busy holiday season.

'Tis the season to be racing around: twice in two weeks I've escaped from my handlers and taken off. It's something in the air, I guess. First time was a rainy night when I smartly took advantage of Mom and Dad, turned their supposed knowledge about me evading raindrops at all costs on its head, and scooted out into the drizzly dark, leading them on a wild Tucker chase. Second escape happened because of a wardrobe malfunction, but the result was the same: room to roam—in this case the hundred acres of the Hunnewell Woods.

Both me and my predecessor, Sparky, were born to run: he, the classic Dalmatian, to race alongside coaches and later, Mom; and moi, built to run over, under and through tangled underbrush, over downed trees, across creeks and wherever a scent takes me. Bottom line: once loosed upon the world, we're near impossible to catch. Come when called? Why?

This morning I dutifully walked on my walk. Then I came home, raced around, lifted two freshly-baked blueberry-raspberry buttermilk muffins from behind the mixer-cooling rack barricade, consumed them in the privacy of the living room, then claimed a sunny spot on Dad's favorite chair.