I was planning to write about all of my beagles, consecutively, and then begin to talk about our latest little girl, but I took Lucy for a walk in the woods for the first time tonight, and realized that she won't be a puppy forever!
Lucy is the fourth beagle in my life, a bittersweet gift. Bitter, because of the sudden shock of losing the second Mandy beagle only this past May. And sweet, because Lucy's adorable face and floppy ears are evocative of all the beagles I have loved.
Walking a beagle is not like walking an ordinary dog, and walking Lucy is no exception. First of all, the nose tends to the ground, the scents and temptations encountered there determining the course and pace of the walk. In addition, their stubbornness can contribute to their leaping off in unexpected directions. Off-leash recall? Forget it!
Since Lucy is still a puppy, though, she has not learned the joys of unsupervised adventure. Only a week ago, as I would try to walk her more than a few yards from the house, she would flop down on her belly in the middle of our gravel driveway, refusing to budge another inch. I would struggle impart some of my enthusiasm to her, and she has gradually gone a little farther each day. Tonight we made it past five houses and we found ourselves at the entrance to neighborhood woods. It's shady coolness drew us in, and Lucy and I paused, she sniffing the underlying scents of bunnies, and birds and detritus, masked for me by the spicy fir trees.
Lucy no longer minded that we were far from home. She was intent on a dozen tantalizing trails, assailing her senses. As she walked along the forest path for the first time, I thought of the many times I had walked and prayed along those same steps with Holly, my incorrigible, manic, yet beloved Samoyed mix. We have walked in every sort of weather: on the sweet spring mornings when the wildflowers peek out in profusion, on snowy days when Holly would be in her element, racing in huge circles around me, never slacking pace, the snow clinging in icy tufts from her face, on stifling afternoons of midsummer when the air would press on us, and we would continue anyway, allured by a waft of coolness, deep within, and most of all, in the rain, pouring down from the trees and turning the path to mud. Holly was never happier than on these outings.
It was on these walks with Holly that I opened my heart to God and let the love in my heart for my children grow.
Lucy will not be a puppy forever. A large swath of the forest was denuded a decade and a half ago, replaced by gravel and blackberries and struggling scrawny firs. But for tonight, I will enjoy the evening with my newest dog, and remembering past joy, anticipating the future.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Heidi and Mr. Chips
Heidi maintained her dignity, her squat legs supporting the long, sagging weight of her swollen body, a model of patience and tolerance. Chips was puzzled. Here was a dog who had no interest in puppy jousting, yet forbore to discipline him. His mother must have sent him sprawling with a quick nip on countless occasions for lesser infractions.
Chips bowed in front of Heidi, the white tip of his tail waving an invitation to play. A few sharp barks and he bounced up and grabbed one of her drooping ears and tugged. She moaned and moved toward him. From that moment on, Mr. Chips would use Heidi's ears to direct her, until all of the graying fur on her ears was stripped bare, and her ears were reduced to a leathery charcoal gray.
Such was the discipline and training that Mr. Chips experienced in our home. We may have taught him the basic obedience drill, although he never quite understood the command, "Come," except at mealtimes, or with the lure of a puppy biscuit.
He soon mastered the Beagle art of escape. The front door would open, and out he would dash, ears flying, heading for the nearby park with Peter and me hot on his heels. He was never more joyous than when he was being pursued by the two youngest members of his pack. Eventually he would stop in the shade of the tree-lined park fence to catch his breath, and we would creep up to capture him and clip on his leash. He would follow, his tail still erect and his spirit undaunted.
Chips bowed in front of Heidi, the white tip of his tail waving an invitation to play. A few sharp barks and he bounced up and grabbed one of her drooping ears and tugged. She moaned and moved toward him. From that moment on, Mr. Chips would use Heidi's ears to direct her, until all of the graying fur on her ears was stripped bare, and her ears were reduced to a leathery charcoal gray.
Such was the discipline and training that Mr. Chips experienced in our home. We may have taught him the basic obedience drill, although he never quite understood the command, "Come," except at mealtimes, or with the lure of a puppy biscuit.
He soon mastered the Beagle art of escape. The front door would open, and out he would dash, ears flying, heading for the nearby park with Peter and me hot on his heels. He was never more joyous than when he was being pursued by the two youngest members of his pack. Eventually he would stop in the shade of the tree-lined park fence to catch his breath, and we would creep up to capture him and clip on his leash. He would follow, his tail still erect and his spirit undaunted.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Mr. Chips
Of course Peter chose a little boy beagle, the friendliest of the roly poly foursome. Mom paid the $75., and we piled into our family car, a 1963 Ford "Travel Wagon".
Then began the debate over names. Our cousins had a Beagle named "Charlie Brown", so it seemed obvious to name the little guy "Snoopy". But that had been done, and Snoopy was at his height of popularity, shooting down enemy planes, writing a novel, and all of the other normal Beagle activities, such as sleeping on top of his dog house, and delivering eggs at Easter. We stopped off at the grocery store for puppy chow and a box for his bed. As Peter and I argued over the possibilities, Mom interrupted and said, "Look at this box. It's a case of 'Mr. Chips Chocolate Chip Cookies'!" And Mr. Chips it was.
The next stop was home, where the matriarch, Heidi was waiting in the kitchen. With much trepidation, we brought the tiny puppy into the house, fearful of Heidi's reaction. Would she devour him with a quick crunch of her lethal mole destroying jaws? She had too much experience with puppies for that. A few knowing sniffs with her long snout apprised her of the situation. He was a friend, a foreigner, to be sure, but of the same general species. A hound like herself. Whether he was harmless, remained to be seen. Already he was bounding toward her and retreating, in the manner of an expert swordsman feinting toward an untried opponent.
Then began the debate over names. Our cousins had a Beagle named "Charlie Brown", so it seemed obvious to name the little guy "Snoopy". But that had been done, and Snoopy was at his height of popularity, shooting down enemy planes, writing a novel, and all of the other normal Beagle activities, such as sleeping on top of his dog house, and delivering eggs at Easter. We stopped off at the grocery store for puppy chow and a box for his bed. As Peter and I argued over the possibilities, Mom interrupted and said, "Look at this box. It's a case of 'Mr. Chips Chocolate Chip Cookies'!" And Mr. Chips it was.
The next stop was home, where the matriarch, Heidi was waiting in the kitchen. With much trepidation, we brought the tiny puppy into the house, fearful of Heidi's reaction. Would she devour him with a quick crunch of her lethal mole destroying jaws? She had too much experience with puppies for that. A few knowing sniffs with her long snout apprised her of the situation. He was a friend, a foreigner, to be sure, but of the same general species. A hound like herself. Whether he was harmless, remained to be seen. Already he was bounding toward her and retreating, in the manner of an expert swordsman feinting toward an untried opponent.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Life with a Beagle
My adventures with Beagles began just over forty years ago when my mother went to a dog show in order to choose the best breed for our family.
Ours was the standard '60's family of five: father, stay-at-home mom, my brother, Peter, aged thirteen, myself, aged eleven, and our eight year-old dachshund, Heidi. Heidi was the mother of thirteen, and the grieving widow of Hans. My father had just completed his Engineering degree at Stanford, and was employed again for the first time in three years, years in which he had managed to limit his drinking to weekends in order to persevere in his studies.
My mother was tired of raising perfect kids and perfect dogs. She was ready for a little joy and exuberance. As she surveyed the groomed and manicured dogs awaiting moment of glory with a regal and indifferent air, she heard the merry sound of beagling for the first time. Her attention was drawn to a pen of baying champion Beagles, tumbling over each other, and leaping up on the confines of their enclosure. "That is precisely the type of dog our family needs," she thought.
A few weeks later, she had found a litter of Beagle puppies in Half Moon Bay, grand-sired by a Beagle who had recently distinguished himself as Best of Breed at Madison Square Garden. As we sat on the grassy hill and watched the puppies frolicking in the gentle afternoon sunshine, it was evident that the puppies were unconcerned about their regal forebear. I especially wanted to bring home a tiny little girl to be very own puppy. But that was not to be.
My brother was to choose one of the four puppies as his own, since Hans had been his dog, in the same way Heidi was supposed to be my dog (in reality, she adored one person, my mother, and tolerated me!).
Ours was the standard '60's family of five: father, stay-at-home mom, my brother, Peter, aged thirteen, myself, aged eleven, and our eight year-old dachshund, Heidi. Heidi was the mother of thirteen, and the grieving widow of Hans. My father had just completed his Engineering degree at Stanford, and was employed again for the first time in three years, years in which he had managed to limit his drinking to weekends in order to persevere in his studies.
My mother was tired of raising perfect kids and perfect dogs. She was ready for a little joy and exuberance. As she surveyed the groomed and manicured dogs awaiting moment of glory with a regal and indifferent air, she heard the merry sound of beagling for the first time. Her attention was drawn to a pen of baying champion Beagles, tumbling over each other, and leaping up on the confines of their enclosure. "That is precisely the type of dog our family needs," she thought.
A few weeks later, she had found a litter of Beagle puppies in Half Moon Bay, grand-sired by a Beagle who had recently distinguished himself as Best of Breed at Madison Square Garden. As we sat on the grassy hill and watched the puppies frolicking in the gentle afternoon sunshine, it was evident that the puppies were unconcerned about their regal forebear. I especially wanted to bring home a tiny little girl to be very own puppy. But that was not to be.
My brother was to choose one of the four puppies as his own, since Hans had been his dog, in the same way Heidi was supposed to be my dog (in reality, she adored one person, my mother, and tolerated me!).
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