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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