Jog on!

A lot has been happening lately and work has been hectic so barely had any time to write about the beagle despite his antics being as odd as ever. He is now a one-and-a-half-should-be-better-behaved beeg but seems to have developed a full-fledged personality now and reached doggy adolescence in that he doesn't mindlessly bound towards everything with the same joie de vivre of the recently born. He still does with most things (especially if those things are edible) but I have noticed a certain slouching, certain disdainful attitude creeping in. One of Monty's new found pet hates (pun fully intended) are the innocent, health boosting, cardio-aware people who pound the pavements: joggers.

I don't know what it is that upsets him so. It does seem to be when we are driving somewhere. He will wait until we are just about alongside to launch himself face first at the window and giving them a short, loud burst of barking disapproval. This sudden outburst is more effective as often, he'll catch their eye as we meander towards them; lulling them into a false sense of security that he is just a cute little dog interested in endurance training. He likes to wait until that last second so that as we pass, they invariably get a fright and amuse him with a little potentially ankle-breaking foot wobble. I am worried about this sudden bout of schadenfreude!

I’ve always thought the Pavlovian experiment was really interesting. But no matter what man can come up with, bells or not, I’m convinced there’s no better way to encourage specific behaviour than to get another dog to do it first. Monty is a copycat. He’ll hate the word cat being mentioned in relation to him but there’s no other term for it. As I’ve mentioned before, Monty has a spaniel friend that goes by the name of Bella. Bella is mad. There’s no other way of describing her. She will happily watch a fly on the ceiling for hours, taking occasional breaks for a few seconds to see what’s happening in the room before turning her attention back to the progression of the fascinating insect. She will also jump to get it despite in being ten feet above her. Despite her slightly obsessive personality, she is the light of Monty’s life. He adores her. She is very much the dominant of the two and Monty walks that important half a step behind her and he watches her. He watches her every move. And then he has a go at whatever she is doing.

There’s a field near where we live that is open and wide enough to give the beagle a good run around without worrying about him getting near any traffic. It’s known locally as Cow Common; a name I hadn’t really understood or questioned during the winter months. It was only during a walk with both of the dogs recently that I realised why the name was apt. Across the other end of the field were a placid herd of grazing cows; contently going about filling their four stomachs. As a result of this constant munching, the field had transformed from a delightful, muck-free field to a minefield of cow pies.

However, this had never been a problem before. A sniff here and there and no drama. But Bella had other ideas. According to the sprightly spaniel, there’s nothing more divine than to roll around over a fresh dollop, coating yourself in the scent of cow waste. Given her longer hair (and worrying about the interior of my car which is already pretty covered in Monty hair. If anyone wants a lift, they pretty much have to shave a seat first) I hurried over and put her on lead. She wasn’t too badly covered and I thought I’d just about saved the day.

Then in my peripheral vision, I detected the thrashing upturned limbs of a twitching beagle who looked to be fitting on the grass. Turning my full attention to him, I realised that he had seen Bella and decided to try it out for himself. Unlike Bella, who had opted for a modest pile, Monty had managed to find the bull’s share and he was having a hoot of a time. When he finally righted himself, he wasn’t so much a tri-coloured beagle anymore. Any white sections had disappeared and he was practically glossy with a coat of faecal fur. He was slick with it. And the look of absolute glee on his face? I’ve never seen a more euphoric looking beagle. He was DElighted with his new look.


I however, was a little less pleased. Luckily I had a bag of clothes that were going to a charity shop in the back of the car so I did have a jumper to sponge off the excess and after that Monty had a date with the garden hose. He’d managed to get it under his collar and in his ears!


What was funniest, was the look of desolation as I washed him. It was like he couldn’t understand why anyone would undo all that effort!

Stop Sock Thief!

A number of items have been going missing in the last year a little bit. Coincidentally, this is about the same amount of time that Monty has been in our lives. Some of these objects are being found in the oddest of places and include a variety of things seemingly picked at random: remote controls; socks; letters; candles; instruction manuals (but only with the useful sections chewed out). The list is pretty endless. The culprit is obvious as he’s not the most covert of operatives. He leaves the really stealthy stealing to the CAT burglars (apologies for the awful pun). Monty tends to prefer the direct approach. The equivalent in the human world of his robbery techniques would be a battering ram though the bank doors (that are automatic) followed by smash-and-grab approach, no masks, flicking the Vs at the security cameras before tumbling out with bank notes flying out of bulging, badly packed bags. There may even be a rebellious little pee up against the bank manager’s leg. That’s the kind of thief a beagle would make. No planning, no balaclavas, no blueprints of the grounds, no glass-cutting devices and certainly no panache. Just a whole lot of enthusiasm.

He’d be caught almost instantly and during the subsequent line up would bound up to the witness and jump up at him to make sure there was no doubt who took the loot. Prison would be a synch though with their superlative digging skills. And then onto the next bank.
So far, it hasn’t got this far. I haven’t needed to call in the police and he seems content to confine himself to domestic thievery. I’ve been playing ‘good cop’ and suggesting to the beagle that if he doesn’t do it again, I won’t call the appropriate authorities. He looks at me blankly and then grudgingly lets me have the hole-ridden sock back. I inspect it and then he gets it anyway as a toy seen as it’s now more of a leg warmer than a sock.

The problem is that when I try to apprehend the suspect and regain possession of the sock/ toilet roll/ remote control/ DVD... he has the gall to try to resist arrest! Managed to catch photographic evidence of growling sock thief.

All of this kleptomaniac behaviour got me thinking about the financial implications of this hound of ours. Take a goldfish for example. What exactly do you need to enjoy a successful ownership of a goldfish? Bowl? Check. Water? Check. Fish? Check. Smelly-food-flakes-that-smell-and-look-suspiciously-like-dried-up-scales-of-other-more-unfortunate-fish-that-may-or-may-not-have-come-into-direct-contact-with-a-cheese-grater? Check. And that’s about it. Even a cat doesn’t need all that much. Bowl of water and a mini sandpit to make a mess in and they’re fairly happy. Well as happy as a cat can look.

When I think through a mental itinerary of the legitimate things we’ve had to purchase for Monty PLUS the added on extras that weren’t mentioned during the teary farewell from his siblings, I think we could very well be living in a mansion with maids for the maids. We could take a speedboat along the canal that we had commissioned to run from the front door and a rocket to the moon whenever we needed a little space (sorry, second cringe-worthy pun).
Instead, we keep forking out more and more money on the ‘indestructible’ toys that Monty instantly destroys (I’m sure he can read as sees these labels as a challenge). I can’t afford to keep buying them or replacing each household item he ruins.

There’s only one thing for it. We’re going to have to rob a bank and I’ve got just the accomplice for it. I’m off to knit a stripy jumper in size beagle.

Show time!

So, Monty is now a show dog! Well, I'll need to be a bit more specific. It was hardly Crufts but a little bit of fun and all in aid of charity. It took place in two of the local villages: Warborough and Shillingford. Both beautiful Oxfordshire villages complete with cricket greens, flower-festooned pubs and the kind of charm that warms the heart (and the kind of price tags on the houses that makes me realise rather depressingly that I would have to work five life times to have the money to live there. Even then, at a stretch I might get a wonky shed at the back of a compost heap).

Anyway, the villages are the epitome of the English village and the perfect location for a wholesome Sunday dog show. Even despite the late July drizzle, the kind that doesn’t so much get you wet but coats your hair and skin in tiny pin head sized droplets, too small to actually dampen your skin or spirit.

There were a number of light-hearted categories ranging from ‘waggiest tail’, to ‘best trick’ and ‘fancy dress’. We decided to enter Monty into ‘most handsome dog’. Well why not?

So it was with a carefree and ‘it’s not the winning but the taking part that counts’ attitude that we entered the competition. But not for long. As soon as the dozens of other (have to say adorable) dogs arrived, I won’t deny the sudden sting of competition did smart. So much so, I had to check myself. Parenthood may not be too far around the corner and if this was how I felt about a charity dog show, I was suddenly awash with the frightening premonition of my hot housing my future child in Maths classes to push him or her to genius status. I’ve seen pushy parents like that in documentaries. So, as neurotic as it seems, this calmed me down and purged the brief spark of competition.

After cooing at the ‘cutest puppy’ round and nearly missing our round, the Handsome Dog category was announced. I strutted into the ring with an alert beagle trotting alongside, tail straight, head aloft, glossy-eyed and well groomed. He sat pertly beside me without a hint of interest in any of the other dogs. His attention was on my voice commands and them only.

And now for the real account. I stumbled into the ring under and over the lead that Monty was trying to use as a skipping rope with me whilst he continued his ongoing argument with a Labrador on the outside of the ring. When his attention was finally diverted from it, he strained to stick his nose directly in the crotch area of another dog owner before peeing in the most visible spot to the audience he could. With a look of satisfaction he finally sat down..for a nanosecond before giving himself a good old, and lengthy scratch. And a cleaning downstairs for good measure. I think he managed to tick all the boxes of what I hoped he wouldn’t do with the exception of trying to procreate. But there was still time.

The judge was already making her way around the dogs; chatting amiably and inspecting the four-legged contestants. As she approached a nearby spaniel, I heard her remark that she did love spaniels having always had them herself. On seeing Monty, she said, with a detectable note of negativity in her voice, ‘Oh, a beagle’. She then had the audacity to follow this with, ‘he’s chunky isn’t he?’ Chunky! I wanted to cover his ears. I suppose he is a little stocky but chunky!? Hrrrmph!

At this point I realised that there was not going to be a victory rosette for the little chunky monster and as anticipated, a host of spaniels won the show. But it wasn’t over yet. The judges called for an extra round at the end. A good-humoured extra round for any dog who hadn’t yet won an award.

I had no shame: I walked straight back into the ring for what was effectively the ‘losers’ round’! A little more prancing around and we were awarded 2nd.

So it’s official, ladies and gentleman, Monty is the official 2nd Best Loser!

A proud day.

Miracle Grow

We’re not horticulturists really my husband and I. Our garden is more Sahara than Chelsea and the plant life has a sort of post-apocalyptical look to it but there is one plant that seems to have taken a sudden growth spurt. Where once there was a fairly meek, spindly looking shoot, there is now a distinctly thicker, healthier chilli plant. It’s evolved from lack lustre to luscious in just a few weeks. The question is why. We live in damp England and we’re enjoying the usual pendulum-like summer weather that swings from blisteringly warm to wintry cold on the hour each day. We’re certainly more chilly than chilli. So how was this chilli plant suddenly thriving in our erratic British climate?

This would have remained a mystery had I not caught sight of the pesky little beagle out there early yesterday morning and again today and I counted only three paws on the ground. The fourth leg was stretched haughtily into the air in a ballerina pose whilst the telling amber stream arced with impressive precision into the centre of the pot.

Mystery solved.

The only question that remains is whether to tell the husband who has been painstakingly nurturing his seeds into life and wondering why oh why they weren’t growing well. Having moved them “into more direct sunlight” he commented on the sudden and vast improvement and his little face has been the picture of pride. Should I let him believe in his gardening know-how and decision-making skills or spill the truth and dash his confidence? There is the argument that it does no harm to the plant and won’t actually affect the health of the consumer but in my mind now, every little chloroplast or mitochondrion will be saturated with the pee pee of Monty. Each miniscule membrane is passing his water so to speak.

What a dilemma. I’ll be holding back on the spicy food for a little while I think.

Monty goes for a walk.

It's been fairly quiet in the Monty camp the past few months and little to report. I took him into a school recently to take part in a long country walk and he was really quite well behaved! Thinking about the main potential embarrassment being the poop-scooping inevitability, I decided to take him out for a walk beforehand and let him 'relieve' himself. He did this with his usual joie de vivre (!) and off we trotted to the event.

I think he finally gave up at the fifth poop. It’s never an event in itself to cause facial reddening until you’re being watched by swarming teenagers doing the one-two-invert-plastic-bag shuffle. Eugh.

Anyway, to his little beagle credit, he trotted along the seven miles along country paths with fairly few incidents. The only problem in his tiny mind was that I was keeping him on the lead; something he’s not used to on long walks. He kept lurching forward to be let off. He looked just like those mammoth muscle-building men who drag whole trucks behind them with a just a skipping rope over their shoulder. He was hunched forward and straaaaining the whole way. To add to the tension, I’d bought a cheaper than cheap extendable lead from www.ineffectualpetproducts.com (having now exhausted a great deal of my salary on leads that he just merrily chomps right through). Unfortunately for me, it wouldn’t hold a sloth with a hangover. The locking mechanism gave up as soon as he thought about moving forward and made the loudest noise possible each time the lead was ripped out. It sounded like how I’d imagine a goliath angry duck might sound if someone mentioned plum sauce. After a while, I decided to just keep the lead at full stretch to avoid the angry duck (and to stop scaring the poor kiddies with the noise) which led to me walking with my arm out at full stretch as if pointlessly pointing the way or, when the beeg decided to stop for a little sniff (which each time caused a little pile up of children bumping into each other and stepping over the oblivious and content sniffing below) leaving the slackened lead to weave its way in and out of the muddy mire and ‘country pancakes’.

Note: for our American friends, a country pancake is a euphemistic term for grass...after several hours of digestion by a cow. And this was pancake city.

Oh and it was raining. All day.

Apart from this however, he’s been quiet. No plotting. No destruction (well, it’s all comparative isn’t it?) and no interesting stories of attempts of world domination. The next big day in his calendar is this weekend however. The local villages all host various festivals throughout the summer and there’s a dog show this coming Sunday with all sorts of categories ranging from ‘Best Trick’ to ‘Cutest Puppy’ and ‘Waggiest Tail’. Seen as Monty’s best trick (and let’s be honest, ONLY trick) is to ‘sit’, I don’t envisage a standing ovation and a fast-tracking to Crufts anytime soon so I think we may try him out for the others. I might pitch for a new category. Perhaps, 'Most like a piranha award' or 'Quickest to find the algae-covered ditch'?
Watch this space....

Exhibit F may well be the final straw.

Late afternoon. The midday burning sun has given way to a glorious orange glow; everything looks like it's been dipped in nectar. Warmth coils around bare skin. The heat so comforting it hums. A group of men have escaped the clutches of their employment for the day and are relishing a game of football. Friendly jeers. Squinting eyes in the light. Scissor kicks of limbs. The dull thudding of the ball.

The ball.

Beyond the scene, beyond the goal posts and between some trees in the near distance stands the stout figure of a young beagle by the name of Monty. A four-legged ball bandit. His head follows the movement. His eyes reflect the ball. No sound can distract him from the plump leather delight he has in sight. Ball. Ball. Ball.

Within seconds he's in amongst the throng of men; lolloping over with his cutest uncoordinated lollop. They pause to admire the plucky young pup who's joined their numbers. He spins. He leaps. He even throws in a few tail-chasing antics to delight them but little do they realise, as they grin and coo, that he snakes ever closer to the now stationary globe. The glorious orb.

Then he has it. He's off. Holding his prize aloft with pride. Zig-zagging victoriously with a jaunty, frankly arrogant, run.

I chase. I lunge. I dart. I try to bribe with meatish treats.

He darts. He twists. He turns. He even seems to grin despite his anaconda-like grip on the ball.

TWENTY MINUTES I spent chasing that dog. The manners and chivalry of the men was starting to ebb when the sight of another dog at the other end of the field finally encouraged him to relinquish the stolen property which was by then convincingly punctured. Whilst he sped off to antagonise the poor unsuspecting Labrador, I was left to blushingly apologise and then give chase once more, lead and poop bags in my flailing arms over to the next exciting episode.

I think it is well and truly game, set and match. I give in. You win Monty.