The bones of a good story...

Ah, the bounty of a snowless winter! Chicken bones. Spareribs. Hot dogs. And once, the grand prize—juicy remnants of beef tenderloin, snagged from behind a top restaurant. Quite a different scenario from last year, when I dutifully dug in a frozen snowbank for a bagel. This being New England, it wasn't even that good.

So when Mom presented me with a bona fide bone that I didn't have to scrounge for myself, I was mystified. It was kind of like being at a fancy dinner and having more tableware than usual. Just what does one do with that fourth fork?

Turns out that Mom's generosity had something to do with teeth cleaning. Not happy with the toothbrush results, she tried the old-fashioned thing, and my canines are gleaming. Kind of like whitening strips, but for dogs. Except much, much tastier.

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.

Seven swans a-swimming, and a nice juicy Christmas bone

A juicy bone thrills my soul right to the marrow.

Don't know exactly which day of Christmas it is, but I saw seven swans swimming in Morses Pond yesterday, and for once they didn't try to attack me.  When I arrived home, I received another early Christmas gift: a delicious, juicy bone from Castor and Pollux, which Mom obtained at Tilly's, her favorite store on earth. Tilly's is located at the crest of the aptly-named Bacon Street, which I often traverse, and while I've never found bacon, I have often discovered chicken bones and other delectable treats deemed dangerous by my family. The ban on such foodstuffs seems to necessitate opening my capacious jaws, peering inside the deep recesses and retrieving said foodstuffs.

However, if one goes the legitimate way and purchases said juicy bone, one cannot expect one's canine to wait until Christmas.

X-rays show I swallowed something I shouldn't have

I'm now feeling well enough to go on regular walks.

You know things aren't good when the vet opens up a discussion of your physical health by saying, "If you have unlimited funds..."

What Dr. Wolfus was suggesting was that me and Mom head up to Tufts Veterinary Medical Center, get me an emergency ultrasound, and find out just what that lumpy thing is in my belly. Or, we could wait and see if it's merely an upset tum.

Because it was bad enough getting wrestled onto the table to have a couple of x-rays, plus being made to have my weight checked (a svelte 84 lbs, in case you were wondering), we decided to wait. Plus, it was our first time seeing Dr. Wolfus, who in spite of his scary name, is exceedingly kind, gentle, and needless to say, given that I can't imagine a more difficult patient, patient.

I thought back to see which delicacy might be causing such distress. People do toss the most delicious, yet inappropriate, foodstuffs on the ground. On Sunday, I was trotting about in Wellesley Square and snuffled something under some leaves. It smelled so great that I didn't even look to see what it was. Mom immediately opened my alligator-like toothed hinges, one jaw in each hand, and looked deep inside. Nothing—already gone.

So neither of us knows what exactly I consumed. We're waiting for the radiology report. Keep your paws crossed that it's nothing too serious.

Update: All is well, and I am heading back toward full beastliness. Thanks goodness!

Partying it up at the Wellesley College Club

Longest nose (and legs) brings new meaning
to "first come, first served."

Two dog birthday parties in Swellesley last night, and because it looked like there were No Dogs Allowed at the Wellesley Free Library (besides Mariah, the famous pet therapy dog and guest of honor), I pointed myself toward the Wellesley College Club.

Sandwich cookies = yum!

Thursday night soirees at the club have become a habit with the top dogs in town. Last night, Suzy celebrated her 15th birthday, and boy, was there a great spread, which was a good thing given that I had to share treats with so many folks. One human guest was going for the Oreo-type cookies when she was warned they were for dogs, only.

Happy Birthday to Suzy!

I tried to give Suzy my pickup line, but she took me literally—no, she didn't come here often. In fact, it was her first visit to Canines and Cocktails (Thursdays, 4-7).  Still, she looked fetching in her birthday hat.

I helped myself to oodles of treats, and was thrilled when my friend Lucy showed up. Fashionably late, I might add. I didn't mind—it just added to her irresistible charm.

See how attentive Lucy looks? That's because she listens to her folks—most of the time. I'm saving the other photo of me being attentive and her zoning out, so I can use it on just the right occasion.

Enjoying a private moment with Lucy.

Let's Eat!

Music for Compulsive Nibblers

(a mixtape from the '90s)







The other day, in between scoops of Breyer's Dulce de Leche and Almond Butter ice cream with fistful chasers of Skinny Pop popcorn, my omnivorous girlfriend Amy quipped, "Hey, I (mmmmmgrrr) wanna make a (mmmmmslllrrgggr) food-themed mixed tape (smack smack, slurp slurp). Where should I start?" That got me digging out my theme mixtapes from the '80s and '90s - way back before iTunes and CDs made finding, recording, and distributing songs so much easier; before downloads and file sharing, I had to rely on my own personal record collection (yes, every song listed below is from vinyl). Here's the print version of my "Let's Eat!" tape (recorded on a Maxwell UDII 90-minute cassette tape and taking its title from the Nick Lowe Live Stiffs LP song); please feel free to add to and update it! (It is, after all, rather dated - note how I didn't even have Weird Al's "My Bologna" or anything by Southern Culture on the Skids like "Banana Pudding" or "8 Piece Box.")





Amy sez: "Let's eat!"





Amy found her Cheeseburger in Paradise - and Super-sized it!



Side A

Beatles - Savoy Truffle

Collins Kids - Shortnin' Bread

Louis Jordan - Beans & Cornbread

Louis Jordan - Boogie Woogie Blue Plate

Wird Al Yankovic - Girls Just Wanna Have Lunch

John Mellencamp - Hot Dogs & Hamburgers

Nat King Cole - Frim Fram Sauce

Lambert, Hendricks & Ross - Home Cooking

Tom Waits - Eggs & Sausage

Nick Lowe - Let's Eat!

Undertones - Mars Bar

Lambert, Hendricks & Ross - Farmer's Market

R. Crumb & His Cheap Suit Serenaders - Get a Load of This

David Soul - Black Bean Soup

Frank Zappa & The Mothers of Invention - Call Any Vegetable



Side B

Andrew Sisters - Hold Tight (Seafood Mama)

Mounds/Almond Joy commercial

Earth Opera - Roast Beef Love

Oreos commercial

Cracker Jack commercial

NRBQ - Hot Biscuits & Sweet Marie

(Note: But how could I not also add NRBQ's "RC Cola and a Moon Pie"!)

Armour Hot Dogs commercial

Butterbeans & Susie - Hot Dog Man

I Love Bosco commercial

Chicquita Bananas commercial

Chordettes - Lollipop

Insiders - Love Like Candy

Ohio Express - Chewy, Chewy

Frank Zappa - St. Alphonso's Pancake Breakfast

Jimmy Buffet - Cheeseburger in Paradise

Frank Zappa & The Mothers - Muffin Man

Pink Floyd - Apples & Oranges

Steve Goodman - Chicken Cordon Blues

Jonathan Richman - Double Chocolate Malted

Jack Wild - Cotton Candy

Help! I swallowed plastic wrap!

This body packs a heap o' potential energy.

So, right up there with queries on whether dogs can eat edamame (you would not believe how many people have found my blog by asking that question) are queries on consuming plastic wrap.

Considering how smart we canines are, let us assume that most of us have mistakenly consumed said wrap. Presumably while it was covering something delicious.

In my case, the wrap covered a perfectly good turkey and cheese submarine sandwich that someone carelessly tossed away. It was, unlike many food items I have snagged, actually in the trash. (That Upper Crust pizza crust I found on a rock wall in Wellesley Square last week—mmm!)

Here's what happened. My head went in. Mom pulled it out. My head went in again. This time, before we got too Hokey-Pokey-ish, I came up with the goods. That Mom, though, she's fearless, even in the face of the Jaws of Death.

Like the rest of me, my teeth are large. And I am famous for my stubbornness. I clamped. She attempted to unclamp. Then, finding a bit of sandwich and wrap outside of the Jaws of Death, she pulled. I dug in my heels. She dug in hers. Plastic wrap stretches! I witnessed precious bits of sandwich being torn away, but I dared not open the Jaws for fear of losing more.

When this peculiar tug-o-sandwich finally ended, I got to keep half the sandwich and Mom had half. Very luckily for me, she ended up with most of the plastic wrap.

Plenty of canines and cocktails at College Club

Perfect evening at the club last week. The Wellesley College Club, that is. Checked out the treats, as well as the company, and both were fab. Big jars chock full o' special goodies there for the taking!

Mom said no to the giant bone, as well as the licorice-like twists, but indulged me in some organic kind of baked bone that turned out to be delicious.

Lots of dogs played on the terrace while their moms sipped fruity-looking drinks in tall glasses, nicely served by Charlene.

Among the guests: Wally, a big, shaggy griffon; Kelly, a miniature beagle; a cockapoo that danced very prettily around the treat table; and several others whom I'd love to meet again.

Be there: every Thursday in August, 5-7 p.m.

Diet secrets revealed!

It's been a while since I've visited the esteemed Dr. Schettino at VCA Westboro, so on a spare Sunday I hopped into the car and made Mom drive me over. Thought it would be the typical weigh-in, followed by my also-typical reward at Especially for Pets—conveniently located next door.

Tip: Always stand sideways, right foot forward,
for optimal slimness in photos.

They really should put in some kind of massage place or something, because Mom's always exhausted after taking me. She's the one who needs to calm down.

All seemed to go according to plan, but I got tipped off in the waiting area that something more was happening. There was no way I was going in. I plopped. "That's right," said the vet tech, whom I had not met before. "I heard he was a lot like a donkey!"

As I was deciding whether this comment was critical or complimentary,  Dr. S. came out. "He has a waist!" he exclaimed, and everyone gathered 'round to admire my new silhouette. Unfortunately, everyone also had a certain uncomfortable procedure in mind. My focus point was on how quickly I could wrestle two people to the ground.

Now onto my diet secrets:
Tucker's Diet Secret #1: Destroy the temptation to eat more than you should. I unwittingly stumbled onto this gem after mistakenly annihilating the cup used to measure my food. It was replaced with a slightly smaller cup; therefore, I've been eating less.

Tucker's Diet Secret #2: Follow your nose and get some exercise. You know how when you're enjoying yourself, you don't even realize you're doing something healthy? In search of the source of some tantalizing scents, and in part to help poor Mom relax, I've traversed mile after mile.

Tucker's Diet Secret #3: Nap when you get tired. You actually burn calories when you sleep, so napping isn't lazy—it's work toward your goal of gaining and maintaining a svelte figure. After all, it's supposed to be bathing suit season, and I for one am ready.

Help for hounds, and treats, too

Today's an open house (12-5 p.m.—be there) and the dedication of the isolation unit at Greyhound Friends in Hopkinton, the venerable rescue and adoption shelter that has been finding homes for my fleeter relatives since 1983.

So, run, don't walk—the unit's important because pets from southern climes have been bringing in all sorts of diseases that vets don't ordinarily see here in Massachusetts. The open house is also a chance for greyhound owners to get together for a fun meetup. 

Fortunately, though I'm from South Carolina, I headed up here disease-free. Stubborn as all get-out, but healthy.

My nifty new treat jar from Second Chances in Natick.

If you can't get there, at least make it to Greyhound Friends' thrift shop, Second Chances, in downtown Natick, on West Central right near Main. We donated a bunch of dog-related goodies, and couldn't resist picking up a treat jar. It's fab. Also, we found a super feeder that puts all I need at just the right height. All I need, one must emphasize, not all I want.

In return for our donations, I was offered a bottle of glucosamine, but declined on account of my callow youth. More on age when you hear about my big Plop O'Doom yesterday. That's another story.

Happy Easter, Swellesley style

Two sets of bunny ears?

Swellesley's so civilized, a bunny can run right under the nose of a hunting dog and be perfectly safe (I love bunnies!). It's so civilized, that foxhounds consent to wearing bunny ears. It's so civilized, that foxhounds try to leap up on small girls to steal their bunny ears (sorry, Olivia!) but are prevented by their hawk-like parents.

I did not participate in the usual Easter morning hunt, my parents being disappointed in my behavior. I stole a gigantic something (it was delicious) from the street during my walk, and Mom felt that I had exceeded my extra-caloric limit. To make up for it, I tried to act a bit Sparky-like by donning this ridiculous outfit. Not only was he delighted to dress up, he also was a very successful plastic egg hunter and deft opener of said eggs. Our Easter bunny sets out eggs with Charlee Bear treats inside, but this year,  the E.B. must have anticipated my gluttonous behavior, for I received a big goose egg instead: exactly zero.

Thanks to C.H. for the Easter portrait. Next year, I'm going egg-hunting at your house.

Attention please: can dogs eat edamame?

Ok, I have to be honest with myself: did I really want to try the edamame, or was I merely engaging in attention-seeking behavior?

Never to take the simplest path, and feeling a little Willy Loman-esque, of course I wanted attention. Attention must be paid to this dog!

Mom was packing up to take my sister to a college overnight, and I didn't like the look of things at all. I am not a fan of travel, especially when I am not included. I didn't see anyone gathering up my travel bowls, beds, accessories, toys—all the essentials. Instead, my folks had stacked up a few treats on the kitchen island. Yeah, I knew they weren't for me. I didn't even try them—simply carried the container to my lair, artfully scattered the edamame on the rug, and delayed departure by at least a few minutes.

And when everyone came home, I knocked them over, just to show how much I missed them.

To the question of whether dogs can eat edamame, of course we can! We can eat anything—it's the results that are questionable, and according to my research, humans don't tend to appreciate the gastrointestinal consequences.

Tucker's first full supermoon

Last night's supermoon reminded me of nothing less than an empty food bowl. While one might have expected me to have bayed at the stunning sight, the only yowls I let out were ones of hunger, after being woken from my early bedtime and dragged outside.

I couldn't help but be reminded of that sweet little kitten in Kevin Henkes' Kitten's First Full Moon, who sees the moon and wants it, then thinks its reflection in the water is a bowl of milk (hey, wasn't that a dog story to start with—remember, in Aesop's Fables, the dog sees the reflection of his bone in the water and is so greedy that as he opens his mouth to scoop up the supposed second bone, the real one falls into the drink). Anyway, Henkes' kitten finally laps up a real bowl of milk. I guess I can forgive Mr. Henkes for turning the dog into a kitten, him having won the Caldecott Medal for it and all.

A satisfying tale, perfectly done. But I digress.

I stumbled along the edge of the pond, bleary-eyed. Mom, always eager to see a natural event, woke practically everybody in the neighborhood, so I didn't have to do anything, voice-wise. However, when she tore our friends Carol and Don away from their pasta to see the trumpeted supermoon, I tried to insist they return to their dinner. They are so good-natured that they were not even deterred by my jumping on them, my paws over Don's shoulders in a weird kind of dance. So we all took in the supermoon, and then, properly awed, and after more than a decent interval, went home. In retribution for the interrupted sleep,  I demanded several treats and a peanut butter bone.

Pi day, or is it pie day?

I was so excited when my math-focused sister told me today was pie day—I'm crazy about it! Then, when I noticed she was knitting mittens with three stripes, then one stripe, then four stripes, in this nutty pattern that had no pattern at all, I nudged her several times with my oversized nose. Where, after all, was the pie?

An empty bowl is a sad thing. Dirty, too. Where's that maid?

I suffered through her explanation. But look, the one circle I care about is my bowl. Whether it's full or not is the only thing I'd even dream of calculating at suppertime.

But in honor of Pi Day, and looking ahead to National Canine Poetry Fortnight, I herewith present my Pi poem. The syllables represent the first few digits of pi, which, I learned, is 3.141592653...and since pi is infinite, food is the optimal subject of my poem. Just don't try to measure my diameter. Paws off!


For the Love of Pi (e)
by Tucker

Tell you true.
I
love pie, pie, pie.

Pie:
Apple, cherry, plum
All make scrumptious pickings for my tum.

If one
Should even try to take
Precious pie away—
Hear me bay.

Awooooooooo ad infinitum

Carb loading: it's a good thing

You know how I've been salivating for a bagel, and how my dad ruthlessly threw away my precious bagel find.

So, my sister was home for the snowday, and Mom was in charge of lunch. Opportunity #1. (Mom is a rather lackluster lunchmaker, as opposed to Short-Order Dad, who's a genius.

My sister takes out a couple of bagels, Mom goes to do some icicle destroying. Opportunity #2. (I set this one up by refusing to go out the back door underneath dripping icicles. After all, wouldn't want to suffer from the elements.)

I sneak and take a bagel, very, very quietly. And I just take one, because two definitely would be noticed.

After my snack, I take a nap, conveniently timed to coincide with Mom's lunch.

Just to top it off, the next day, while Dad's heating up some chicken parm with pasta, I swipe my share. (Opportunity #3.)

What does it take to get a decent bagel around here?

Ok, so I'm from the South, and don't know a bagel from a bialy. In theory.

Truth is, I've been salivating for a bagel for two whole days, and I knew exactly where to find one: deep inside a snowbank next to Morses Pond.

I first sniffed it out when I was down there with Dad, who grew wise to my game. Then this morning, during the storm, I tried to drag Mom down the steep hill to the pond. Steep for her, that is.

"Tucker," she said as I weathervaned myself in the right direction. "I'm not going down there. It's too icy." When she tempted me with a treat, I lost my willpower and gave in.

Tried again tonight. I moped around until someone noticed. Once again dragging Mom in my wake, I faked like I wanted to go for a neighborhood stroll, then homed in on my pondside treat. That bagel was sending out a signal like a semaphore, even though the night was pitch black. I dove into the snowbank and came up victorious.  Then zoomed home, with the frozen delicacy well ensconced in my capacious jaws, while Mom flailed behind.

My plan worked perfectly, until I dropped the dear, cold bagel on the living room rug and prepared my attack. Ignoring my bared teeth, Dad picked up said bagel, and dropped it, sorry to say, into the—gulp—trash.

Dear Tucker, yes, there is a Santa Claus

And he's squeaky! Santa knew just what I'd like for Christmas, so besides this fun replica to remind my parents that the spirit of Christmas lives on, and that presents shouldn't be limited to just one day, I received a treat ball. It's designed to improve my dexterity and, just in case I use up too many calories batting it around, provides refreshment as well.

I had a big workout yesterday, bounding through the snow and dragging Mom behind me. I was kind of like an Alaskan husky, but without the sled.

To replace all those calories, I took advantage of a friend (she owns cats, so what does she know about the swiftness of a canine). She put down our order of Chinese food to take off her coat. I quickly opened a carton, grabbed a Crab Rangoon, and hightailed it.

Question: my Harry Barker Santa toy has a tag on it that says, "This is not a toy." Really? I ignored it and kept chewing.

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.

A disquisition on the littering habits of my countrymen

I've got to hand it to those treasure-seeking trollers on the beach of Mom's childhood: you never know what you're going to find. While they were on the lookout for coins of the realm, I'm interested in more caloric fare.

Today, for example, I found a great hunk o'bread round the shores of Lake Waban, under a pile of leaves. Then, I snagged a piece of a cupcake (chocolate! with icing!) that somehow was stuck to the trunk of someone's car. That was just a single outing.

Chicken legs, chicken bones, big hunks of roasted chicken. Parts of McDonald's Quarter Pounders. Fries to go with them. Did I mention chicken bones? Bones of all kinds.

One could conclude we are a nation who likes to throw its extra food out the window.

Now that we have a critical mass of Dunkin' Donuts emporia (roughly every 200 feet; otherwise, immediately across the street) in our town, one can expect a concomitant increase in insignia trash. When my sister was 5 and on a visit to our nation's capital, she became disturbed at all of the Dunkin' Donuts cups and napkins she saw strewn about.

While she planned to write a letter to the company president, I'm not at all sure she got around to it. Meanwhile, if people would just toss the donuts away so I can find them, and throw the paper stuff in the trash, I'd be good with that.