Happy Birthday, Goddamned Beagle

Dear Goddamned Beagle,

Against all odds, you made it to one year.

I say this because the number of biohazards you’ve ingested since we first met would have felled a normal mammal, and nearly ended me any number of times just through exposure as I pried them—or at least tried to—out of your mouth.

The more disgusting the more delicious, apparently. The more clearly teeming with cholera or ebola or vesicular exanthema of swine, the more enthralling, and the more quickly you pounce upon it and consume it. You then have the gall to whine in some, “But I’m a helpless puppy, don’t hurt me” horseshit display as I go spelunking to retrieve the soggy, filthy, wadded paper product from your gullet.

You are the only dog, mine or a client’s, that I’ve ever had to specifically work on “leave it” with white paper products as a target item. It’s a work in progress. Slow progress.

After six months of your stay here, you are now mostly sleeping out of your crate and on the bed with me. I say mostly because this whining you’ve picked up from the Golden who visits is being used as a weapon of entitlement everywhere, including at night when you don’t want to go to sleep, and instead want to “not go to sleep,” but also nothing specific.

In those cases, I have to crate you because I, Beagle, do want to sleep. This is not as easy as it should be, because this also means I am sharing my bed with you and a crate that I hurl you into at any given hour of the night, only to let you out later on when you’re repentant and want back into my good graces, and covers.

By the way, you’re a horrible co-sleeper. You sigh and fuss, trying to make yourself comfortable on the king-sized bed anywhere but somewhere normal. And straight-arming me as I sleep with your four legs is both alarming and infuriating. I then have to right myself to prevent falling off the bed, and you claim the spot I’ve just vacated. Then lifting your suddenly sleeping dead weight to move you means I’m as awake as can be for at least half an hour.

About that weight. You may technically be a purebred, but when people stop me on the street and exclaim, “Oh my god she’s so cute, what kind of dog is she?” I tell them you’re a Gnocchibeagle, because that is your shape.

Your Auntie Gretchen says I should stop fat shaming you, but there is no better way to describe your form than that of a gnocchi x beagle cross. Made of lead. Standing on four short logs. Or two, when you’re sussing out what’s on the counter.

Your overly-enthusiastic size also means you can reach things on the counter. Your predecessor would have killed for your height, because she shared your utter lack of conscience.

You stand with your front paws on the counter, stretch languidly, and then unfurl your nails, the same ones I trim constantly but that nevertheless have an extra six inches hidden away for grabbing paper goods, anything made of cloth, and all foodstuffs off the counter.

About that cloth. To date you have eaten all four corners off of our duvet cover. You’ve also eaten large pieces of seven dishtowels, three blankets, and three cashmere scarves. Those are your favorite.

You get them with your stretch-and-reach technique, or when some fool decides she’s tired and takes a winter nap in the living room and uses a blanket because she’s cold.

For your birthday I’ve ordered you a framed organizational chart to remind you of how things are supposed to work in beagledom. You’re a year old now, and we can’t have the rabbits scaring you all the time when they jump out of bushes. You did very well with the chickens on our walk the other day, and that dove who chased you out of the dog yard was nothing but a bully. Still, we can’t let the other beagles see this. I was very proud when you chased a squirrel today on our walk. I believe it was the same squirrel who doesn’t bother to move when we pass by each day. The squirrel seemed more surprised than afraid, and stopped to sit and watch you about fifteen feet along the fence from where you pursued him. Still, it’s a start.

Anyway, we’re back from our walk, and you’re resting from that predatory display on the recliner next to me, no doubt digesting the apple core you found and the muddy piece of what may have been a rag you ate just before it. The forecast says cold rain today, so we’ll go downstairs and practice some of your service tasks and other fun things that will not help your waistline, but that you’ll enjoy.

Happy first birthday, Beagle.

Love,

Your Person