Boot camp: brutal, but effective

Grateful? I don't know, but my profile is awesome.

"It's like Cesar Millan came to Wellesley and worked a miracle!" Mom squealed. Now, Mom is prone to exaggeration, so I must tell you that while Cesar the Great did not show up at our door, he's got an unofficial East Coast counterpart.

I was the dog who wouldn't go. I wouldn't go forward, I wouldn't go backward. Tons of products exist to keep dogs in check. But what was the answer to get me to go? Mom despaired while I ruled.

The answer turned out to be Elaine Stern of The Grateful Dog (there's a misnomer!) Elaine doesn't come with a camera crew, and you don't have to submit audition videos to validate that you're a genuine worst case. Having known me from her puppy training classes, Elaine didn't need any proof of my stubborness. In fact, she had probably been expecting Mom's frantic pleas for some time now.

Given that Elaine's been visiting over the last month, putting me through my paces, and with Mom trying (valiantly, but not so successfully) to follow up, I've been exhausted. Hence, my less frequent posting. Frankly, if it weren't for the call of the food bowl, some days I would have rather stayed in bed. Dad, as always, remained on neutral ground, wisely staying out of the process.

As part of my training, Elaine took note of lots of things: the flipped-up couch cushions, my eating habits, my weight,  my sleeping places. Among other keen observations, she felt I was a bit tubby. "He's not in any shape for hunting right now," she said, not that I would dream of it. "He wouldn't get very far." She did, however, approve of my beds, all of them: Serta Perfect Sleeper, double; Sealy Posturepedic, single; armchair, large. "Big dogs need to be off the floor."

As a result of boot camp, I now condescend to an afternoon walk in my very own neighborhood. Before, a steak could have been on the front steps, the door open all the way, and I would have just looked askance while lolling in the front hall. Now, I get up and head out, like a regular dog.

Too bad Mom didn't make those videos. Because if I had been on TV, I bet I would have my own driver right now, taking me wherever I wanted to go. No walking required.

Paws up for a Borderland state park fundraiser!

Is that a halo around my head? Wow.

I'm all set for an outing Sunday, Oct. 16 with my friend Bella at Borderland State Park. Mom promises exercise, a meet and greet, and lots of treats—all for a good cause.

I'll be wearing my new radio collar, thanks to Elaine Stern, my personal trainer. Her business is called The Grateful Dog, and while Elaine sure is effective, it's Mom who's grateful, not me. I remain recalcitrant at my core; however, under Elaine's tutelage, Mom sure is challenging my alpha role. More on that experience later.

Paws in the Park is a fundraiser for the Animal Protection Center of Southeastern Massachusetts in Brockton, a bit out of my geographic range, but a worthy organization nonetheless. Borderland, in Easton, has tons of acres, a pond around which to stroll, and a stunning mansion.

Another organization dear to my heart is Coonhound Companions, which is the weekly cause at Be the  Change For Animals. Check it out--it promotes adoption of dogs just like me! And we know just how special I am. Just check out my halo.

No Sox? No Yanks? No problem!

I've been going mano a mano with Mom over where to walk. I'm winning.

Nothing to watch? How about this series? It's me vs. Mom. Will I or won't I go for an afternoon walk? Tune in at 4 p.m. every day to see the titanic struggle.

The standings:
Me 3-1 .750
Mom 1-3 .250


The issue is not walking; it's the location. Rather than simply take off from home, I really prefer a stroll in Wellesley Square in the p.m., similar to the Italian passeggiata—you know, the late afternoon stroll common in Italy.

I could live on sausage and meatballs, Locatelli cheese, and prosciutto. So why not adopt the noble tradition of the passeggiata? It fits my needs perfectly, according to Fodor's:  "During the week, the passeggiata marks the end of the workday and offers a moment of sociability before the family dinner...The most important thing, it seems, is simply seeing and being seen (vedere e farsi vedere)."

Exactly. See and be seen.

Given how famous I am, who am I to deny my public?

Wild beast on the loose in Wellesley and Natick!

It's a wild, wild world when I'm going at full tilt.

It's true. In violation of local bylaws, I was off-leash and not under voice control. (I should point out that I never have been under voice control, or any other control, for that matter. And let's be honest: we've all met tons of offenders like me). However, unlike many who simply are released intentionally, my liberty was obtained through guile and deceit (plus some nifty shimmying).

It happened like this: my all-too-generous cousins offered to take me for a walk, the rain having stopped and myself no longer in danger of melting. Unfamiliar with my restraining apparatus, they chose the simple collar and leash approach. I hid my glee, pretending not to notice their error.

Once we were underway, I wasted no time. I unveiled my Houdini impression, slipped the surly bonds of my collar/leash combo, and took off. I visited the Airedale down the street (she, poor thing, never ventures out of her fenced area) and investigated some choice scents emanating from a side yard. It was there, armed with treats proffered to them by a kind neighbor, that my cousins captured me.

That's what they think. It would have been awfully beastly of me to let them head home, hound-less. They would have felt terribly guilty.  Not something I would worry about, but as I did detect a drop of rain, the call of my dry, warm, man cave was irresistible.

Got pheromones? Calming a Tucker-cane is a challenge

I can go from mild

to wild,  in no time at all.

I have to admit: I can be a little wild, especially when the temperature drops. I'm also sensitive, especially to thunderstorms, nail clipping, fireworks, etc, etc. So Mom consulted with the vet, who suggested a dog pheromone collar. It releases chemicals into the environment that are supposed to be the least invasive way to help calm an anxious pup. My nails are getting a bit long, and Mom wasn't about to let the groomer put the straitjacket on me again.

So Mom puts the collar on me, and because I've taken to sleeping in my sister's closet, she objects to the smell (it's scented, for humans, I guess...they can't smell the pheromones). I'm also preternaturally calm, to which Dad objects. [Definition of preternatural: beyond that which is normal, or natural. Calm is definitely not my natural state, unless I am asleep.]

It's unsettling and true: I'm almost comatose. I can barely make it out of the closet.

They put the collar away, but I do have a large nose, and of course I can still pick up on the chemical messages. So I'm calm. Then Hurricane Irene decides to head up the coast, and we lose power. Oh no—that means that Mr. Smoke Detector Man will announce the restarting of power.  Mom worries about everything. Maybe she's the one who really needs the collar, I think.


I try the collar again. It works. But once the storm passes, my family just can't take the calm version of me. I'm just so incredibly...shall I say, boring? It's like Hurricane Irene being downgraded to a drizzle. So it's off with the collar.

Just in case the storm, whatever its formal name, wasn't exciting enough for you, I'm available to wreak havoc in your yard or home. Just call. I'll leave the pheromone collar at home.

The natural order of things: me first

It's pretty hard to move 90 lbs. of resoluteness.

"Who was that walking Tucker the other day?" complained the mailman. "She wouldn't let me give him a treat!"

I'm kind of like a therapy dog: I make people happy. When I let out a good, loud, bay, everyone laughs, and thus they are happy for a few moments. Feeding me makes the mailman happy. But my sister is tough, and what she says goes.

Here's the order of things in my family.
1. Mom is the pushover. She believes she has authority. In reality, she has none. It's so fun to see how far I can go with her—and I can go pretty far! Miles, in fact.
2. I kind of feel sorry for Dad. He doesn't know the first thing about discipline, and I appreciate that. I go along with what he wants most of the time. After all, we guys have to stick up for each other.
3. My sister is an equestrian, and she learned early that sweet talk gets you nowhere with horses. I am the size of a small pony, and, given that I'm bred to run all around horses, must have picked up some behavior tips somewhere along the line.  I spook, I buck, I canter—and in the stubborn dept., I have no rivals.

I've learned that Mom plans to record my sister's voice giving me commands before she heads off to college, then play them back at crucial moments. For example, when I refuse to do something, which is often.

 I'll just play along, as if I don't know the difference between a real person speaking and some tinny recording, and then we'll see, once again, who's really the boss.

Caesar is dead! Long live Caesar!

The old Boston terrier in my neighborhood got out and was run over by a truck. It was kind of inevitable, given his desire to tear limbs off passerby, wheeled or otherwise. Yet, he had passed the Ides of March safely, and no one was expecting it.

Caesar was an old pal of Sparky's and they played together when he was a pup. Then C was sent to boot camp and came back an angry guy.

He and I never properly met, and that was OK with me. I've also never met the mastiff who joined him last year, and, ditto, so fences do help to make good neighbors, though not quiet ones.

So I did a triple double take when I sauntered by and there was Caesar, back from the dead! Turns out to be not a ghost, like Hamlet's father, but indeed, as if 'twere a mirror, two new Boston terriers, Romeo and Juliet.

"The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones."

Thanks to my literary sister for the Julius Caesar quote. While she plays the viola, her name is not Olivia. Email me if you don't get the reference, and I will enlighten.

Naughty and nice: the year in review

I know there's a Santa, and that he and his crew have been tooling around my neighborhood, because all of a sudden I am awash in antlers.

My friend Lucy's parents clued in my folks to the power of antlers for teeth cleaning, and so they sent up a wish to Santa. I have elk and deer antlers, and maybe moose. They are great for chewing. Mom was so inspired she gave our relatives an antler-handled bottle opener for their Minnesota beverages, although I am assuming they will not chew on them. Maybe, in Minnesota, they are a people delicacy, too, but I am not fully informed.

I got to thinking about my behavior over the past year, and toting things up, I have to admit, I was naughty and nice.

Naughty: knocking Dad over in the middle of the road at morning rush hour. Nice: snuggling with my sister to relieve her college application stress.
Naughty: grabbing items willy nilly from every corner of the Wellesley  Booksmith. Nice: not pouting when Mom didn't buy everything I wanted.
Naughty: executing the Plop O'Doom on a regular basis. Nice: starting to learn to come when called.

Just a few examples. Now, I cannot claim to be as food-naughty as my pal Biscuit, who ate an entire pumpkin pie the day after Thanksgiving. Go, Biscuit! There's something to strive for. (Note: favorite dog poetry book, Once I Ate a Pie by Patricia MacLachlan. Read it and laugh hysterically.)

Does Santa count the week after Christmas toward next year's list, or does he take a hiatus from toting things up? I'd like a little break from having to balance things out all the time.

Cookies have me salivating...for a Dreams du Dog Christmas

With Christmas coming up, Mom pulled out her Dreams du Dog special recipes and got baking. Today she made Gingerbread Bones for Good Boys. These are cookie-swap good. My friend Kiki's mom, who loves sweets, mistook them for people cookies and raved about them, then nearly had a heart attack when she found out they were for Kiki, not her.

No worries! Dreams du Dog cookies are made with ingredients—the best—right from the people pantry. I'm crazy about them, but then I'll eat anything (see previous post). Sparky was the true inspiration for the baking business. No stale supermarket "treats" for him—only the best. He'd just spit out all those old Milk-Bones that people proffer. Pitooey! So my sister and Mom started doing some baking, and he supervised every move.

Today I even sat, stayed and zoomed over when called, then knocked Mom over for my reward. "Bones for Good Boys?" she reminded me.

 So, what's in a name? When she refused to give me any more, I went into the pantry and helped myself.

NY Times disses dogs twice on front page!

I'm steaming: two articles demeaning dogs on the Times' front page in the same day! Above the fold!

The first, Doubts Rise on Bedbug Sniffing Dogs, about dogs who mistake other bugs, such as rodent mites, for bedbugs, casts doubt on the ability of my sniffing cousins to detect these miniscule but horrible creatures.  What's the problem? asks Mom. Are dogs expected to identify each bug by genus and species?  Besides, any bug inside the house is a bad bug in Mom's book. Wouldn't you be grateful if a dog identified some rodent mites in your house?

Demeaning piece #2: a story, Cats Lap With Just Tip of the Tongue, trumpeting the amazing physical abilities of cats to lap up their milk. No kidding. The story even had stop-motion photographs to demonstrate this apparently incredible feat. Not only that, the author felt compelled to compare it with the water-lapping technique of dogs. Writer Nicholas Wade calls the sound accompanying my slurps "unseemly" and "crude." He even goes so far to write: "Cats, both big and little, are so much classier," attributing this judgment to several engineers.

Now, dear reader, do you really think these scientists made that evaluation in their report in Science? Or is the value judgment simply one made by this seemingly biased writer?

I went to the source, Science's November 11 issue.  I learned quite a bit about lapping kinematics, including "gravitational collapse," "pinch-off" and "mouth closure" factors, as well as the suction abilities of horses and sheep. This fascinating reading aside, the scientists do mention the "elegance" of the cat's method but make no invidious comparisons. Dogs scoop water into their mouths. And what, exactly, is wrong with that? Works for me.

Why did the turkey cross the road?

Clearly, he or she wanted to check out the new striping on Central Street, which has just about everybody confounded.

He also might have questioned why the striping was done before any repaving, but that question is better left to higher minds than his. Such as mine.

However, I enjoyed seeing him early of a morn, the sun just peeking up over the evergreens and the shimmer of water in the distance. It's my kind of weather, cool, dry and of course, sunny, so I've been packing a lot of vim and vigor into my day, as I told my pal Lucy's parents.

What's vim? you ask. Well, Lucy's folks conveniently have a large dictionary on a pedestal, so you can just look up words whenever you like. Vim: energy; enthusiasm, of which I have more than enough.

So to contain some of same, Mom tried the Easy Walk harness on me. Or, I should say, retried; perhaps she forgot that the problem with the harness was not that it had problems containing me but rather that it should more properly be called the Easy Balk harness.

For that is what I did, dear reader.

Stood there, simply stood there, until she was out of her mind. I knew she was out of treats, so guess who won this round of patience? When I want, I can be very, very patient. Very, very patient.

Fortunately for Mom, the mail carrier didn't know that we were engaged in this secret war, and he pulled off the road to greet me. Bored as I was, it was a relief. Plus, I nabbed a few more calories, just in case I did walk off —or, should I say, balk off— a few during my outing.

Incessant, unceasing barking, definition of

This post was inspired by the unceasing, or is it incessant, barking of several dogs in my neighborhood, most small and yippy, one large and menacing, but all annoying.

Being a rather quiet guy, I'm a bit puzzled by the commotion. Because (notice I did not use the word "since") I'm becoming known for my clear definition of terms, especially the difference between obstinate and obdurate, it occurred to me that I didn't quite know the difference between unceasing and incessant, or even if there was a difference.

So here's the deal: unceasing and incessant both basically mean "not coming to an end," which certainly is true of the noise around here (excepting of course, the immediate environs of moi, Tucker). However, incessant has a negative connotation, and is used when the unceasing barking has become unpleasant (in other words, immediately). The definition given for incessant is "continuing without pause or interruption."

The odd thing is, that after musing over these definitions this morning, this afternoon I went out for my walk, properly leashed, of course. One of the yippy dogs, improperly off leash, bounded out of her yard and attempted to attack me, several times, dashing forward, dashing back, baring her teeth and rolling her eyes in a most unseemly manner. Finally, provoked, I let loose with my sound of alarum usually reserved for the Siberian Husky (although it was the moderate version), but the thing kept approaching, gnashing its teeth and barking. Unceasingly. Incessantly. Annoyingly.

After it was all over, I went through the paces of my walk, but my heart wasn't in it, and when I got home, I went to sleep. Immediately.

Dear Mr. President, I can help with Bo

So, I see that someone from Bellevue, Wash. visited my blog for advice on training an obstinate dog. One could not find a more expert authority. Therefore, I propose my services to none other than our president.

I've always felt a bond with Bo. Actually, I had been lobbying for the president to choose a foxhound as the First Dog, given the pertinent history of my breed. (You know, George Washington, Lafayette, etc., etc.) However, I hold no grudge, especially given the late Sen. Kennedy was the generous benefactor.

But I have noticed that Bo has taken his place at the head of the family. See Politico's story on what Cesar Millan thinks. (And, btw, reporter Patrick Gavin, the Dog Whisperer's name is spelled Millan, not Milan; that's the city.) Even I think my dad is tops, and while he knows the U.S. Constitution inside and out, he's never taken the oath of office.

Bo, pal, you need to shape up.  Here's our family hierarchy: Dad, my sister, me, and Mom (I have to preside over someone!). When Mom went to visit the hounds at the Norfolk Hunt Club, she was keenly aware that the hounds never ventured in front of their master. It's a major no-no.

Here are my tips for the Obamas.
First, load up your pockets with the best treats you can find. Lots of them.
Then, find a harness that will help keep that furry body contained. It will give you more traction, and he won't mind too too much.
Next, start walking on a short leash. Practice sit every couple of steps. Give tons of treats.

Tucker's Tip: Here's a trick that drives dogs crazy: the minute they start to pull, you turn around and walk the other way. Now, it might seem odd for a president to be walking in circles, and we certainly don't want anyone to extrapolate any political meaning to same, so perhaps Sasha and Malia can take on this job.

Soon, Bo will be walking proudly next to his dad, and he can channel his other demanding behaviors for the privacy of his own home. After all, it's his castle, too.

Tons of Tuckers: Norfolk Hunt Club's hound haven

"Well, Tucker," Mom said, "You would have loved it. Tons of hounds, all very well behaved, plus puppies!"

I didn't need her to tell me. I could smell those hounds on her from at least a mile away. Our friends Pete and Kate, dog trainers extraordinaire, help walk the hard-working hounds at the hunt club twice a week. Today they invited some members of our family. "Tucker can't come," Pete said. He was right. I wouldn't have fit in. Well-behaved is not exactly the best adjective to describe me. Goofy? Yes. Silly? Yes. Funny? Check. Strong-willed? Double check.

So off went Pete, my sister and Mom while I had Dad all to myself on our morning walk. It was my special birthday present to him.

They started out with a peek at Penny's eleven pups, just a couple weeks old and adorable. What a mom! Penny didn't mind visitors; they gave her an excuse to put her nose in the treat bin. Then, they went for a walk with hound master John and dozens of hounds. The hounds stayed right with John, and if they even thought about straying, he made sure they didn't.

Mom's favorite was Dollop, because he was goofy and endearingly puppy-like, just like me. The hounds knew exactly what to expect from their master and knew their routine. They're trained early on with the help of the older dogs, literally attached as they are paired up. I'll bet Dollop wasn't an easy baby.

The dogs became pretty voluble when we neared a spaniel and when they caught the scent of a German Shepherd, but other than that they were remarkably quiet. Just like me. Hey, maybe I could learn to work for a living. I do admire that pluck in a pup. For now, I think, I'll just take another nap. Being a pet does have its advantages—which cushion should I pick?


A big thanks to John, Pete and Kate for helping my family learn more about me.

So what did I get Dad for his birthday? Dog walking gear, of course!

These words inspired by H. D. Thoreau

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately..." (Henry David Thoreau, Walden)

Actually, I went to the woods because Mom and Dad took me there on my morning walk. And I am very deliberate during my time there. In fact, Henry David himself says that there's nothing like a bit of exercise to get the creative juices flowing.

Being naturally rather introspective, I consulted my two-volume set of Thoreau's journals (rather criminally discarded by a New Jersey public library which shall go unnamed) for August 19, 1851: "How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live! Methinks that the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow...The writing which consists with habitual sitting is mechanical, wooden, dull to read."

There you have it: the perfect argument for every writer to have an annoying, lovable pup who has only the writer's best interests (plus his own, of course) at heart, when launching himself at the writing chair. The goal: to put both writer and pup in motion.

If you need more instruction on moving, the September Runner's World has tons of info on running with dogs, including the pros and cons of running with a leash, top dogs for running with humans, things to buy for your running dog (why no high-endurance treats on the list? I'm always thinking food).

Somehow, my noble breed is not one recommended for running with humans. The problem? Humans seem to like run in a straight line! Sparky, my beloved brother Dalmatian and an excellent running companion, was fine with that. Me, perhaps because of my contrarian nature, am not.

No debarking or debaying: vocal cords protected in Massachusetts

Ah, the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts, friend to dogs (cats, too), has become the first state in the country to ban surgery to keep us from talking. It's unbelievable that it could even have been allowed.

Even though I'm a very quiet guy, I just can't imagine saying nothing. I mean, how would I answer my folks when they ask, "Are you hungry?" Unless I provide a heartfelt bay, I'm not getting anything, and I know it.

It's true that some of my neighbors drive me crazy with their barking. Tonight I was out for a walk and Mom practically had a heart attack when some little yippy thing broke out into "Get away! This is my place! No walking in front of my house!" You know, that's what air conditioning is for: keeping the sound down. So you want quiet? Call the a/c guy, not the surgeon.

Wild goose chase leads to Lake Waban rescue!

So, I emerged from my vacation exhaustion long enough to go for a short walk at Lake Waban with my dear girlfriend K—. While she's no Michael Phelps, she's been doing some swimming, and as I waded on the Wellesley College side, she decided to get wet all the way.

Problem was, some Canada geese were hanging about, and when she got in, they swam away, just slowly enough to keep out of her reach. They kept swimming, and so did she. And they kept swimming, and so did she, and soon her mom was frantically calling her to come back.  But you know us dogs, when we want to do something, we do it.

So my Mom, who grew up swimming, worked as a lifeguard, and has even been known to race other moms at Morses Pond (and win, I might add) jumped in for the rescue. Fortunately, as she and K— were getting pretty far out, K— finally gave up on her goose chase and turned around. Mom was able to grab her collar and swim with her back to shore. K—'s mom and I were worn out from our frantic pacing and grateful everything turned out OK. Lessons learned: no swimming off leash, program emergency numbers into the phone, and come when called.

Well, I haven't quite learned that last one.

In the path of destruction...Part I

You know that Paper Source motto, "Create Something Every Day"? Mom loves that, or at least the idea of it.

Well, I'm a contrarian, so my own motto is this: Destroy Something Every Day. 

However, now that I'm turning three big ones, I might be a tad more mature. True, I was a callow youth, a mere half-dozen months old, when my family brought me home. I, who had never known more than an outdoor pen, had never crossed a home's threshold or jumped gleefully into a car. Ah, a dog without a proper home is a sad thing...

So, I'm in my new yard for no more than 10 seconds when I unleash the full force of my pointy teeth onto my new, 100% guaranteed, indestructible leash. Just one chomp required—it wasn't as if it was the Gordian knot or anything. Mom did send for a replacement, but sorry to say, it did not give her the mastery she sought. Oh, no.

Herewith I confess my destructive sins, both mortal and venial. You decide which is which.

Tucker time (T) + 10 seconds: the aforementioned leash severing.

T + one day: Stand on table, break lamp.

T + two days: ditto with lamps two and three.

T + three days: chomp portable phone to smithereens

T + four days: devour family's steak dinner (I wouldn't call a thoroughly enjoyed quality meal destroyed, but Dad would)

T + five days: chomp TV remote to smithereens (Mom and sis couldn't care less, but Dad...)

T + six days: Grandma bravely comes to visit! Hour one: chomp prescription sunglasses (through hard case); Hour two: ditto with cellphone; Hour three: ditto with Italian leather wallet.

T + seven days: Grandma leaves (well, she desperately wants to, but she is far too nice).

Here ends Part I of The Confessions of a Destructive Foxhound.

More to come.

Another dog blog! And, why I am the smartest dog ever

I am very fond of Wags for Walks, and a faithful customer. But they can't serve customers west of here, and while trolling around on the computer I found a pet sitting service based in Sherborn that sounds like fun. Roxie the mutt will come over to your fenced yard and play—sounds great, no?

Roxie even blogs at Roxie's Blog. She's part of a cool experiment at Harvard's Canine Cognition Lab, which is studying how dogs make decisions. Oh, but they haven't met me, the canniest canine of all!

Unfortunately, though many have claimed I am the smartest dog they ever have met, I fail the first requirement:
"Is your dog patient? If given a choice between 1 treat immediately, or 5 treats in a few minutes, will your dog wait patiently for the 5 treats?"

Waiting? Are they kidding?  Don't those psychologists know that humans collapse nearly instantly, so it makes far more sense to get the first treat immediately?  Those treats will quickly add up to 5, maybe even more, with no waiting required on your part whatsoever.

Patient, however—that's me to a T. I can wait out Mom for pretty much a lifetime. If that Canine Lab was really wanting to test inferencing, they could see how I infer that I am in charge. Constantly. Proves that I am way too intelligent for the Ivy League. Way.

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.