Canine Poetry Fortnight: two weeks to go to the dogs

I'm going to carve out my own two weeks out of March, and I suggest you do the same, in recognition of National Canine Poetry Fortnight. It's an apt precursor to National Poetry Month, which for all of you who are not in the know, is in April. I wouldn't expect my readers to know of National Canine Poetry Fortnight, because I just invented it.

Pet peeve: when writers say something like, "Lady Gaga, for all of you who have been on Mars for the last few years," which assumes that all of course know of Lady Gaga, or whomever. Dogs cannot set up iTunes accounts, our paws are not deft enough to work iPods, and some of us live in families whose musical taste is not all that au courant.

But I digress, as usual. To kick off National Canine Poetry Fortnight, and because I do like to plan ahead, I have composed a couplet:

On Fame
by Tucker

I never grow tired
Of being admired.

Thanks to Lorna at the newly-renamed Wellesley Books for not only being one of my most ardent admirers (although how could one gauge the depth of such adoration as I get when I enter that fabulous home of treats) but also for her inspiration.

New owners for Wellesley Booksmith: paws up!

Wow! I'm thrilled that my favorite Wellesley Square destination, the Wellesley Booksmith, has new owners (see today's Globe news story). Hooray to Gillian and Bill Kohli! I'm reassured that Gillian says she intends to keep everything going as usual: for moi, of course, that means great fresh water, treats and constant inquiries about my health and well-being.

For example, last week Margaret was quite concerned that I might waste away unless I was handed a treat immediately. And then Rebecca made sure that I was properly fed before going out into that cold, vastness of the Square. (Actually, it's just a few steps down to Pinnacle's real estate office, where I am regularly refreshed. But I won't tell her that.)

So welcome, Gillian and Bill, and congratulations! I can't wait to be properly introduced. Paw?

Cave feline, canines forever!

Though I'm not violently opposed to cats, one never knows when my coiled spring of athleticism might suddenly go off. So it was with considerable trepidation that I entered Wellesley Booksmith yesterday, Mom having received its email newsletter featuring, I believe, its first cat ever. Well, good for them, following the Golden Rule, etc. etc. etc., I charitably thought in the abstract.

After gorging on treats at both front and back counters, I paused. Was that a meow? Again I paused, tilting my gorgeous head and opening my sail-like ears to the fullest. My ears luffed during a lull, then became taut. A meow it was! And again, and again, and again.

Mom and Dad both claim to be allergic to felines, in the way of those who just don't like something. Grandma, for example, claims to be allergic to cilantro ("tastes like soap") when in reality, she's just hypersensitive, one of those rare supertasters with a questionable gift. My sister, however, is fond of all creatures, and one must love her for that, although I hope she never brings a c-a-t home.

So there I was, torn. Real, or not real? Being superaudio (if I may coin a term), I detected something robotic in the catlike utterance, and went to investigate. A tot was opening and closing a kitty book with its meowing electronic chip. Did the thrall of this toy last? I triumphantly can say, the book dropped to the floor when the tot beheld me in my awesomeness. Canines forever! Anyone know the Latin for beware of cat?

A case for independent bookstores

Let me make this clear: I am too big to be carried.  Last week I saw a chihuahua-sized thing tenderly being bundled into the CVS in Wellesley Square. Is that legal? Then, at Michael's craft store on Rte. 9, what Mom thought was a baby turned out to be a terrier (shudder). The only places where a good ole hound like me, size large, is welcome are dog stores and independent bookstores. And the vet's, of course, which I tend to avoid. Now I've learned that half of the independent bookstores that were open 10 years ago now are closed. Not a good thing, especially for moi.

Or people. Example: in search of P. Allen Smith books, Mom stooped to Barnes and Noble, our beloved Wellesley Booksmith not yet onto P. Allen. She should have known. Nevertheless, to use Dad's favorite word for winning arguments, she combed through every one of the store's two bookcases' worth of gardening books, rather thinly stocked and not organized by topic or author as promised. The weirdest thing: by far the most books on any topic (14 separate titles!) were on growing marijuana.  While I'm all for the freedom to read, doesn't that seem a bit disproportionate?

I'll stick to ungardening, thanks, and pray that the independents survive and thrive. Pretty sure B&N doesn't allow dogs, but I wouldn't go there even if they did.

Best places to nap

One thing about me: I can nap anytime, anywhere. I do have my favorites, however, so here's my list of the best  places to nap (summer version).

1. Home, sweet home, outside by the pond, water trickling, birds singing, me snoring. Bliss.

2. My dirt pile. Cool, dusty, and tick-free  (photo not available).

3. Carrie's lawn—the best grass in the neighborhood (don't tell her husband!)

4. Rocco's lawn—second-best grass, but it has Rocco p-mail on it. Very nice. Good for a short break just before getting home.

5. Tilly's Bacon Street Farm. Cool cement, shady, clean, plus I get to meet everyone who goes in or out—they have to step around me. The numerous compliments are excellent for my ego.

6. Lilja school field, under the trees. Always some good sticks to munch on.

7. Lilja playing fields. Good for swallow-watching (that's a bonus for Mom, because my eyes are closed).

8. Wellesley Booksmith used book cellar. Took a mid-fiesta siesta there yesterday, in fact. Rejuvenating.

9. My sister's bed.

10. The guest bedroom.

11.  Why stop at 10? White shag beanbag.

12. Etc., etc., etc.

Life of the party!

Whew! Went to Alison Morris' farewell (sob!) at the Wellesley Booksmith today. I wasn't sure whether I should attend, being a teeny bit concerned that I might take some of the spotlight from that wonderful creature.

Not to worry. There is no one who can outshine Alison! (Just in case, I entered before she did; then I went into the back room to bring out the guest of honor. It was the right thing to do.)

Alison was her usual witty self, telling a funny story about...well, never mind, because I am horrible at jokes. Her husband, the amazing illustrator Gareth Hinds, was there, as was the outstanding children's author Jacqueline Davies and children's book guru and former Weston library teacher Pat Keogh. Quite the erudite, literary crowd. I was in very good company.

And, I was the perfect party guest (everyone said so), letting out just a few guffaws at the appropriate moments, and signing Alison's guestbook with flair. Note to Biscuit: you've got a great mom in Kym. She helped me produce a pawprint without a bit of hesitation.

Only Lorna noticed me raid the trash bin in the back room. Honestly, why let a perfectly good tuna sandwich go to waste? It wasn't until I nearly upended the treats table that Mom decided it was time to go. But really, what was I supposed to do? I couldn't reach it with all my paws on the ground!

Best wishes to Alison and Gareth as they begin their new adventure!

Goodbye, Alison Morris!

One of my greatest admirers (although they are legion) is leaving her post at the Wellesley Booksmith, where she has been the children's book buyer, and dog welcomer, for nine years. Alison is just the greatest, and I was so distraught on my last visit that the impossible occurred: I forgot to raid the biscuit bin!

Even though Margaret, Rebecca, Barry and Deb asked whether I had been proffered my entrance and exit extortion fee, I was just so scattered I could not collect. You would think she was moving to Timbuktu rather than Tribeca, but even though her able colleagues will pitch in to do her job, she has brought incredible energy, vision, good naturedness and intelligence to the post. Not to mention her writing those legendary captions to go with my photos of Big Stuffed Bear, with whom I love to cuddle.

Alison has transformed the Booksmith into a powerhouse of children's literature. Her judgment is excellent: lots of great dog books and an uncanny ability to match books to readers. Also, an uncanny ability to know when I am hungry. Which is always, except when I think of Wellesley without her.

By the way, Alison loves me so much she even mentioned me in her Publisher's Weekly blog, Shelf Talker, and included my photo! I love her! Will I ever recover?

Soundtrack to my life: my little runaway?

Was visiting the Wellesley Booksmith the other day and my pal Lorna, musing over my awesome looks and personality, wondered if I had a song that encapsulated my life.

Mom thought. "Perhaps an ode would be more appropriate—something weightier than a popular song," she said.

Today she had second thoughts. Perhaps I'm not as professorial as she thought, but hey, a guy's gotta have fun, right? I was taking my morning constitutional around Lake Waban, where off leash dogs (not so legally) abound. One fetching pup (in appearance, not habit) took off toward the water. I did the same, wrenching my leash out of dad's grasp. Mom, natch, found me on a path we hadn't tried before, behind the old tennis courts, and snagged me.

First she sang the Del Shannon hit, but it didn't quite fit. She knew quite well why I ran away. Then, being the bookish and very mom-ish sort, intoned the lines from Margaret Wise Brown's The Runaway Bunny: "If you run away, I will run after you. For you are my little bunny." Which is, when you think about it, kind of an ode.

Transgressions of a young pup

Dear Diary,

In the exuberance of puppyhood, I have erred. Let me recap. It was a brilliant day in  Wellesley Square. I stopped at my favorite bookshop, limited myself to just one treat, and had the wonderful experience of a good ear rub from my pal, Rebecca. Mom headed to Town Hall green, but I stubbornly (and you know I am stubborn) stopped in the middle of the block and pointed toward my favorite canine supply store. I allowed myself to be dragged to the crosswalk, Mom being a stickler for such things, and tore off for Tails. My attempt at the tracheas being anticipated and more or less warded off, I eyed next a rather fetching lobster toy. Mom, thinking of something more appropriate for the Easter basket, chose a tempting blue dragon. Would I like it? Simply, yes. I grabbed the toy and bounded up the stairs. The door, which opens inward at the top of the stairs, making a quick exit rather awkward, conveniently had been propped open to take advantage of the gorgeous weather. I took advantage of the open door. What did I know about paying?

Anyway, after Mom took care of my pilfered object, I headed off, searching for a good spot to enjoy Dragon Dog with Chew Guard and test its limits. That place turned out to be no less than my favorite bookstore. Does it count as overstaying one's visit if one leaves, then returns? There was no time to ponder this piece of etiquette. I tore up the stairs and downstairs to the used book section. Not finding anyone to fawn over me, I hiked back up.

Now for my second, or perhaps third, error. The second was my peek into the biscuit bin to make sure plenty of Milk-Bones were on hand. Check. The next and more serious transgression was my investigation into the tiny gray hamster toy Rebecca was holding at shoulder level. I wanted it. Badly. Earlier, she and I had been comparing our respective weights and I opined that the scales would tilt in my direction. Clearly, I was correct as I nearly threw that good woman off her feet, besides scaring her out of her wits. It really wasn’t thoughtful after all of her kindness.

Mea culpa, Rebecca.

Fondly,

Tucker

PS Remember me, for my visits from now on will be highly restricted.

This hound's from the pound

Fave new read: Dogs by Emily Gravett. Found it yesterday at Wellesley Booksmith where I snagged three treats. Clearly, Barry was not on duty to limit my consumption.
    At first glance the cover pup looks like a basset hound, and I jealously thought, what is it with the fascination with these ill-proportioned hot dogs? Any time a hound is suggested in a children’s book, it’s always a basset. (see, for example, The Hound from the Pound; Lunchbox and the Aliens, and a  forthcoming Clive Cussler story that I’ll pass on. Sleep, Little One Sleep by Marion Dane Bauer, unfortunately out of print, has the cutest cover painting of a basset ever.)
    So groan, groan, even though one of my favorite pals, Padi, is an honorable member of the breed. Her mom is children’s author Barbara Barbieri McGrath, famous for her M&M-brand counting books. My mom’s non-candy favorite is The Little Green Witch, based on ye olde tale of the little red hen. Mom identifies a little too closely with that one. (BTW, tried snagging an M&M’s laced cookie last night—not bad, except that it was followed by Mom’s fingers down my throat.)
    Everyone says that Padi and I look alike, and we do—except that my legs are about two feet longer than hers. She’s a good sport, even dressing up like an actual hot dog on Halloween and baying at her parents' display of a big stuffed basset stuck in an enormous web that would intimidate even hard-working Charlotte. Check out Padi's pix on Barbara's home page.
    Anyway,  I noticed there was something very feathery about the cover dog’s ears, so I opened up the wraparound cover to learn this hound is an amalgam of sorts—not at all a purebred, but that’s OK. A basset is depicted inside, and so is a very nice-looking Dalmatian—tail a bit too long in the leaping scene, but great Sparkyish spots—and, wonder of wonders, an actual foxhound! Not truly wondrous, because Emily Gravett lives in England, where there are tons of my shorter-legged and –eared brethren. Also, she knows her foxhounds: I’m on the page of dogs that don’t bark.
    So there.
    Checking out the inside of the UK edition on emilygravett.com, I noticed that the language of one spread was changed for the U.S. market from “stroppy” (scary bulldog) and “soppy” (puffball). Good move. Good book!

The most famous dog in ... Wellesley? Natick? The world?

So, check it out! None other than moi is Wellesley Booksmith's Dog of the Week—I'm pretty impressed with myself! (Dad's response: "Of the week—that's it?")

The store has a great email newsletter that gives you all of the insider info about great reads and events, as well as a Cosmo-like canine feature. So for the Feb. 3 issue and the foreseeable future, I'm your guy!

I have to admit, Dog of the Decade would be more impressive, but in preparation for my upcoming visit to Oprah's show—you know she had to book me before the whole deal closes—I've taken the Aesop's fable to heart. Remember the greedy pup who wanted both his bone and the one reflected in the water? As he grabbed the second bone, the one in his mouth dropped into the drink.

As my grandpa always used to say, "Don't kick a gift horse in the teeth."

I'm actually very, very thrilled to be selected for such an honor and I am grateful that the terrific Booksmith crew even allows me in their store! I'm rather present when I go in, if you know what I mean.

I scooted in last night to thank Kym for her excellent photography skills, kind friendship and prominent mention of my blog (the latter totally unsolicited, truly). Not only did she promptly give me my back-counter treat (I always start at the back, then raid the front bin), she even offered one from the front counter, too. I was much too embarrassed to take a second treat, given all of the recognition, although I did forget myself for a moment and attempted to leap over both mom and the counter.

Kym loves me, perhaps because I remind her of her beloved Biscuit. It is possible that Biscuit and I are kin, because as you know my bloodlines go way back to our first president, and the genealogy can become a bit muddled even for us purebreds.

What also was exciting is that the moment I plopped for my treat, I was recognized! 

I wasn't exactly incognito; for me it was a spur-of-the-moment visit. Mom forgot to spell out C-A-R, and thus uttering one of my favorite words, was flattened by my hefty bulk flying down the stairs to the garage door. No time for a disguise.

So the astute librarian from the Brown Elementary School in Natick immediately spotted me, and this a.m. a bright young Lilja student, who I see often on her way to school, said she'd read my blog thanks to the newsletter.

As memoirs are in vogue, I'm glad I'm promoting reading. And a great independent bookstore.

Taste test at Tails

Was tooling around Wellesley Square yesterday after a dump run when I picked up the scent: Tails!

So I hightailed it into the store, where I did a little taste test with Cameron.   

Pizza-flavored treats? Nope.

Peanut butter?

Nope.

Liver?

Slurp.

Bayed a bunch of times in thanks. Leroy ran for his crate.

Have you been in Tails lately? It's been redecorated, and it's fab. Still has all the great taste treats and fun duds, plus some new things. Mom liked the necklaces; I liked the jar of tracheas, conveniently located near the cash register. But no dice, as I'm still on the aforementioned diet, yet I have gained (so they say) another 1.2 lbs. Winter weight!

I'm svelte compared to that scary, shaggy German Shepherd at the vet who tried to have me for a mid-a.m. snack. Needless to say, I'm much better behaved. And much, much, much more handsome.

Speaking of handsome, posed for my Dog of the Week photo during a visit last week to Wellesley Booksmith. Be on the lookout for the store's e-newsletter featuring moi. Watch out, Scott Brown—Cosmo's calling next!

Happy birthday, Wellesley Booksmith!

Wellesley Booksmith is having a 10th birthday party! The independent bookseller and its pack of smart, funny and dog-loving people is so important to our town that it's hard to remember when they weren't around. And I for one am so glad that they are (love those free treats and all of the attention I get!)

Lots of fun events—storytimes, cake, music, raffles—will mark the day—that's Saturday, Oct. 17— but my favorite of course is the special 10th anniversary canine treat provided by my favorite canine centered shop, Tails Doggie Boutique.

Be there!

And they lived happily ever after...

In honor of Alison Morris on her wedding day, I post these adorable pix of the Booksmith bear (with moi, of course). Alison is the fabulous children's book buyer at the Wellesley Booksmith. She's incredibly smart, witty and fun, and she always pretends she's glad to see me. Alison's the kind of girl who can turn rain into sunshine with her smile, and I'm sure she's doing that today. The photos were taken on one of my visits by mom, but cropped by Alison and tagged with these clever titles (she is a born storyteller):

The Bear's Distressing Secret

The Bear's Shocking Secret

All the best to Alison and Gareth for much happiness!

Paws for a Treat

Popped into Tails for a quickie mani-pedi. Saw Leroy, canine co-proprietor, and took a short nap in his crate. He didn't seem to mind. (Tails Doggie Boutique, 562 Washington St., 781.235.3435)

Cameron, his brother and Noreen's son, did my nails and said I was great. I needed the praise, because it was the kind of day in which I overstayed my visit everywhere I went.

Tails' gumball treat machine is amazing! All you have to do is sit in front of it and refuse to move. It's right at the entrance, so if anyone wants to go in or out...Leroy is demonstrating the proper technique here.

Speaking of immovability, I have this tactic I employ pretty much every time I go to the Wellesley Booksmith (another favorite stop in the Square). Go in the back. Sit immovably at the entrance. If someone fails to rush over with treat in hand, proceed directly to the bin behind the register. Raid.

Next, head to the front of the store to look for Barry. Pretend I have not already had a treat. Raid bin. Go out the front door. Repeat.