Prom time! Bath time, too...

So when I heard the word "bath," I immediately hunkered down in the deep recesses of my sister's closet, hoping no one would find me. The closet starts at the front of her room and goes all the way into the eaves at the back, so when I say deep recesses, I mean it.

Anyway, whilst I was quietly avoiding my fate, I noticed a bevy of gorgeous prom dresses lent to my sis by her cousins. They didn't work for her, so I thought I'd try some on, fresh from my Easter bonnet success. I did look good.

Alas, I had to give up the silk and satin for some suds. Dad dragged me out of the closet, and bribed by Mom with a ride in the car, I succumbed. Just in case I'm asked to chaperone or something, I'll be ready.

A lip-smackin' St. Valentine's gift, and eye candy, too

I snuffled into Mom's grocery bag before she could unpack it, and pulled out a big, gorgeous bone from Castor & Pollux, via our favorite market, Tilly and Salvy's Bacon Street Farm.

So I received my Valentine gift early, but that just means I can be chewing on it while checking out the competition during Mondays's hound group at the Westminster Dog Show. Two new breeds are crowding the hound field this year: the Bluetick Coonhound and the Redbone Coonhound. My breed, of course, the venerable American Foxhound, first entered the field in 1877, the very first year the show was held.

Unfortunately, we have never won Best in Show. Hounds rarely do: remember the big to-do when Uno the Beagle won in 2008?

Perhaps it has something to do with my breed's lack of affinity for grooming (see my recent piece on pedicures). Certainly it has nothing to do with our natural beauty. I cannot predict, alas, a BIS (the au courant know that's Westminster shorthand for Best in Show) this year, but were I a candidate, things surely would be different.

The lady...or the pedicure?

I would have preferred the girl.

I'm your typical full-blooded male, so put yourself in my paws: if you could choose between a date with a young, gorgeous girl or the opportunity to be manhandled to within an inch of your life so you could get a mani-pedi, which would it be?

I'm just saying. Because Mom thinks a bully stick is enough to make up for my being thrust into a muzzle, wrestled by three gigantic people and placed on a platform, where I was tied up and forced to endure said brutalization of my nails. Mani-pedi, indeed! They practically put me in a straitjacket!

All of this went on in front of this young creature, who, I might add, was just as interested in moi as I was in her. Truly, I cannot imagine anything more humiliating.

Mom, however, begs to disagree (and what does she know about begging?). After she was ejected from the tonsorial parlor for her unhelpful interference, she ran into two of our neighbors. They expressed concern, noticing that she and her wallet were limp with emotional and monetary exhaustion (pedicure: $10; muzzle and straitjacket: $5; bully stick, $7.99; tips, undocumented). She fessed up and so claims, too, to have undergone embarrassment.

To reciprocate, I refused to get back in the car, even with the bully stick bribe just waiting there for me. Adding to the impact, the neighbors had parked in the space next to mine, so they witnessed my fully-deserved tantrum.

Check up: good news, bad news, and does this count as a bath?

The good news from my checkup with Dr. Schettino at VCA Westboro: I didn't get weighed! No counting of Weight Watchers points for me, pal. Here's the trick. First, execute a perfect Plop O'Doom. That means a heavy sink into the floor. Plopsville. Even with Mom on the floor, pushing, and Dr. S. standing up, pulling, they got nowheresville. It was great, even though Dr. S. said I reminded him of a donkey.

Mom then tried the "door #2" method to get me into the back room where they do all those yucky procedures, but all I could say was: No can do. Finally, I gave in to have a heartworm check, bordatella vaccination, etc. etc., but having successfully tried the patience of everybody, they somehow forgot about the weigh-in. Whew!

In my defense, I recently had my mass accounted for. When I was last there a couple of weeks ago, the technician came out with a sad look. "He's 88 pounds," she lamented. Mom exulted—at least four lbs off my top weight! I didn't tell either of them that I exhaled just before getting on the scale, then shifted my bulk onto just one hindquarter.

Now the bad news. Dr. S. says I have oily skin and need a bath once a week. Sparky only needed a bath twice a year! So, does my walk this morning count? I got soaked.

Tub time fundraiser at Cambridge hotel benefits Trust for Public Land

Hey, I'm all for saving open space. Baths? Not so much. But the idea of going to a cool, pet-friendly Cambridge hotel for a good cause, and treats (of course) sounds pretty good. Plus the chance to get out of the 'burbs, wonderful as they are, and check out the city scene.

(I would have, last night, but some people left me behind while they took in a Boston Landmarks Orchestra concert on the Esplanade, featuring bits of the Puccini opera Tosca. I would have loved to have sung along with the pros. But no.)

So check it out: Saturday, August 7, 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., Hotel Marlowe, Cambridge. Laundromutt is handling the wash and dry, Polka Dog Bakery is proffering treats (yum!), and I hear the paparazzi will be in attendance.

The $15 fee benefits the Boston chapter of the Trust for Public Land.

House of blues: missing my sister

With my sister away, I've been getting into all kinds of trouble. She's the one who keeps me on track: makes me go for my afternoon walks; loads me in the back of the wagon when I'd rather be in the front; gives me a bath without putting up with my fussing.

So, you can imagine how I've taken advantage of Mom, poor thing. Today she promised me a mani pedi without making an appointment, and so to assuage my disappointment when the groomer wasn't available (and keep me off the tracheas) bought me a braided bone  (although they are much cheaper at Tails, still open this week. Note to self: stock up tomorrow).  While I was being fawned over for being very, very handsome (note the double form of amazement at my beauty) unbeknownst to me, she also purchased lavender scented dog shampoo. Oh, my sister never would allow that!

Here's the part where I make her life difficult: Even with that awesome bone to tempt me, I still wouldn't get in the car before I had properly examined my surroundings. Even then...you know I'm as stubborn as they come. Finally Mom gave in and put me in the back (not the way back) which she is a bit frightened of doing, but honestly, I'm bigger than she is.

Then, bath time. She thought she could trick me by covering the bucket full o' water with a towel. Hah! I knew better. She uncovered the grill (I love the grill!). She sauntered around pretending to tidy the garden. I fell for the grill trick, and that was it. I was clean. But I still laid on all the beds to help me finish drying. Wouldn't want to catch a chill.

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.