The Dog Daze of Summer

There’s a lot to talk about this week, from the president’s hallucinogenic speech to the nation about the 2020 election being stolen, to his fumbling about on the World Cup stage, to the condescending theater of the Acting AG “meeting” with Epstein survivors wherein he told them there was nothing actionable in the Epstein files, to the Iran War starting up again after they were already “defeated” several times, and so on. There’s so much, in fact, that it’s overwhelming, which I agree is the very strategy this Administration uses to protect themselves. There are literally too many atrocities going on at one time to effectively weaponize any of them. So instead I’m going to talk about dogs.

We’re usually a one-dog household. When I met Sweetpea, she had a 4-year-old yellow lab, who was in his prime. He is now a senior dog at the ripe old age of 13 and a half. We realize, given the traditional 9-12 year lifespan of labs, that we’re on “gravy time.” He’s slowed way down from his young adult activities to the point where he won’t walk much farther than a couple of blocks anymore. He mostly sleeps and asks for food. (His “feed me now” obsession continues unabated by time or creakiness.)

He still remains wildly photogenic.

This week, we’ve added a couple of beagles to the mix. We’re on a reciprocal dog-watching system with Sweetpea’s sister. When we go on vacation, she takes our lab. When she goes, we take her two beagles, Arthur and Minty. We’ve been doing this for as long as Sweetpea and I have been together.

Arthur (front) and Minty (rear).

I never understood why Arthur was so unusually named. My first impulse was always to call him “Eddie.” But then I was told he is so named because he resembles Ron Weasley’s father in the Harry Potter movies. That made perfect sense to me, so now I usually get his name right on the first try.

His “sister” beagle (housemate, not litter mate) is named after Harriet Tubman, whose real name was “Araminta” or “Minty” for short.

Arthur is mostly reddish-brown, with more of a “hound dog” nose. Minty is the more traditional look with a black back-saddle, white chest, and tan all over, with a thinner nose. Both have long, velvety ears that dip into the water bowl every time they drink.

These two arriving in the house is like the circus coming to town. Once they hit the door, they fly into action, sniffing the perimeter of every room and hoovering up any stray bits of kibble leftover from the lab’s food-dispensing rolly ball. (With his old age and failing eyesight, he sometimes misses them.) But the beagles find every last molecule of kibble, whether it’s behind the TV or under the sofa. The beagle nose is something amazing to behold. (More on that later.)

The dogs love attention, especially Arthur. Both will let you pet them until your arm falls off. But if you pet Minty first, Arthur, who is always more desperate for attention, will immediately jam himself in between you and his sister.

Minty is the diva of the two. She often holds herself aloof, and when she comes to you for a scritch, it’s not really a request. Back when I was working from home during Beagle Week, she’d stroll into the office and tap my leg with her paw. I’d lean over and give her pets and scritches, to which she would sink lower and lower before rolling on her back to present her tummy for rubs. Once I stopped, she’d stroll back out of the room, for at least three minutes before coming back to repeat the procedure for the next hour. Eventually she’d tire of it or amuse herself elsewhere.

I call her the Diva because once I was done for the day, dinner eaten, and took my place on the couch for the night, ready to pet her into a coma, she wouldn’t come near me. She’d stay on the other end of the couch. She only wanted my attention when it was going someplace else. She wants what she wants, on her terms, always.

“Like I have time for you peasants.”

Arthur, on the other hand, loves to jump up and snuggle in with you, and lick your face or whatever he can reach, until his tongue falls out. I don’t really want him licking on me, though, because he has a distinct predilection for eating his own doots, or any others, whenever he can. That leaves his dog-breath smelling like you would imagine. Eww. It’s nothing you want being applied to your face, trust me. But he’s such a charming little devil, so desperate for affection, that you can’t help love the little shit.

Feeding time is another story… It’s like a three-ring circus in the kitchen. When there is food in the air, the lab is always there underfoot, taking up a lot of space. Now when you add in two more slurping mouths dancing around on the tiles, you have to watch every step or else you’re going down hard.

Sweetpea already makes homemade food for our dog; our guests come with a laundry list of preparations… raw hamburger, veggies, vitamins, meds, it’s a whole ordeal. But then when it’s time to drop the food, it’s like when you see those tame carp at amusement parks, who all crowd the surface with their mouths opening and closing like machines. Minty tracks the bowl like a hawk, while Arthur spins around like the Tasmanian Devil, until the bowls are set down. You have to step on Arthur’s bowl because he noses in there so hard he pushes it around the room, often right into the other dogs. Ten seconds later, it’s gone; all gone. Nary a molecule left over.

The other thing about the beagles is the noise. The lab is relatively quiet, especially in his old age. Even his barks, that used to rattle my brain as they echoed throughout the house, are more like raspy woofs now. The other two, however, sound like jet airliners landing. Any sound picked up from outside, from the mailman to the garbage truck to a plastic bag blowing by, warrants a full-throated howl that can be heard on Venus. Loud, shrill, non-stopping… Oh god, kill me now. Even when we’re asleep and something stirs outside, Arthur sends up the alarm, jolting me six inches out of bed. It takes some getting used to. I’ll let you know if that ever happens.

The other thing is when we let them outside. Sometimes, there’s a bunny in the yard. We have those around. If the beagles see one, it’s like their life depends on hunting it down. Both will run about the yard, nose to the grass, snuffling and baying, retracing everywhere the bun has been. Arthur is especially aggressive, snorting up the yard as if each blade of grass is covered with cocaine and he’s the dog-reincarnation of Charlie Sheen. It’s a trip.

They’re used to having a dog door at home, so they can go in and out at will. But they’re also trained to ring a bell hanging from the door, to signal their intentions.

This is a good thing, for the most part. It’s a clear signal for when they want out. It’s much less good when they ring it five minutes after coming back in, over and over. And you don’t want to refuse to open the door for them because you never know if it’s a potty request or just to go out and sniff things. You don’t want to risk an indoor accident.

Sweetpea had to deal with the other “outside” problem, wherein she let them out in the middle of the night and then had to wait around until they felt like coming back in. The lab spoils us. When he wants out at night, he goes out, does his business, and trots right back in. He may sniff the air for a second or five, which I call “checking his email,” but he doesn’t prolong it. The beagles are not so inclined; being used to having their own late-night adventures.

So, we’re one night down, five more to go. As I tell them every day, “It’s a damned good thing you’re cute.”