13 years later, our beagle is a jumbo-sized bundle of mirth, mayhem and methane
For a beagle, barking is yoga and eating is sex.
All around, we see examples of survival of the fittest, yet we also see beagles. Were Darwin correct, there would be no beagles. The only evolutionary trait that would ever benefit our dog is an empty-eyed, Disney Channel cluelessness.
The thing I’ve learned about our own hefty beagle is that he’s incredibly sensitive. There’s a giant black hole where his brain should be, one of the biggest voids in the universe, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings. The only time he’s truly happy is when we’re spooning in bed and talking about our day.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“Love you too,” he says.
He does this despite having only one brain cell. That’s right, a single brain cell, which swims to various sectors of his skull, depending on which way he’s passed out.
If the one cell winds up on his right side, he’s analytic. If it winds up on his left, he’ll host a game show. Sometimes his brain cell falls out of his ear — like a golf ball — and we have to re-insert it.
He leads a life of noisy desperation. We love him, even as we curse his needy habits — nosing his empty food dish around the kitchen or peeing in the corner when we’re not home.
“Worst Dog Ever” is, like, his nickname. When he scratches to go out, then 55 seconds later, scratches to come in — then go out again, then come in — we pronounce him “Worst Dog Ever.” In, out, in, out ... whiny and insatiable … Worst Pet of All Time.
On a leash, it is everything we can do to keep him from hanging himself. He’ll twirl around a tree, a passing postman, whatever obstacle happens to be around. Yesterday morning, he tangled himself, for about a minute, in the engine compartment of a neighbor’s RV.
He appears to have four stomachs, much like a cow, which may account for his voracious appetite. My boss, who knows everything, says that beagles have an extraordinary sense of smell but absolutely no taste. Like a Kardashian, I guess. Or the architects who design strip malls.
What a specimen: 300 pounds. One brain cell. Four stomachs. No conscience. He’s 13 and will probably outlive me and the world’s supply of crude oil.
We should work with him? Trust me, we’ve tried. He’s got just the one brain cell, remember, and it is shrink-wrapped in such a way that no knowledge can penetrate it. At least, that’s how the vet explained it. I may be leaving out a few details — such as the role of neurons and axon terminals — but, really, it’s a case of his lone brain cell being impermeable.
Somehow, they think his skull also traps methane gas.
Which might explain why he always acts drunk, did I mention that? Tap water makes him wobbly, and we no longer can let him behind the wheel of a car. Despite his glorious belly and triple chins, an ounce of any liquid whatsoever makes him completely blotto.
Into our lives, he brought mirth and misery. Honestly, if we wanted more of that, we would’ve just had another kid.
At parties, he steals food from tables, slurps from wine glasses, then runs beneath beds to digest tissues he’s stolen from the guests’ purses.
We had learned to live with his little idiosyncrasies. They seemed, like my bowlegs and extra butt cheek, almost endearing traits after a while.
Part of it is that we’ve had him forever. Our oldest daughter dumped him on our doorstep, the little guy proceeded to fall in love with him, and that was that. He was ours. We were his. Into our lives he brought mirth and misery. Honestly, if we wanted that, we would’ve just had another kid.
Now this underperforming dog has a rival. The other day, the older boy came home for a visit with a puppy, a stunning designer breed.
The puppy was perfect — aren’t they all? But this little husky was extra perfect, with Nicole Kidman’s eyes, a coat like mink and a silver fleur de lis on her pretty forehead.
Only 2 months old, the new pup does not bark at house flies or pee when she sneezes. She doesn’t mistake neighborhood kids for the North Korean infantry. When the grandpa from up the street goes for his daily shuffle/walk, she does not race to attack him, then back-flip when the leash stretches tight, cursing the entire time.
The husky is just a pup, and she’s already perfect. The 300-pound beagle was born an old dog — strangely lovable despite his many flaws. For him, perfect was never on the menu.
If it was, he’d have eaten it.
Twitter: @erskinetimes
