Not important. . .but possibly of interest

It all started because my partner in life put a grocery list on the refrigerator door. The list is posted every week on the refrigerator. It’s there so if a family member thinks of something we need, she or he (me being the only he) can write it down.

One Friday there was a new item on the list:

“Beagle.”

When my mate asked if I had anything to do with the beagle order I assured her I was innocent. I have occasionally requested cauliflower or brussel sprouts or sardines, but never a beagle.

Our eldest daughter eventually admitted responsibility. She noted that she has always considered the beagle a fascinating animal and had decided to put one on the list to see what would happen.

Over the years, several dogs have passed through our lives. The first was a border collie who we raised from a pup. She was with us 13 years. No dog who followed her ever seemed to measure up. With the exception of the first, all the other dogs were grown by the time we got them and had previously acquired idiosyncrasies. Because of those problems I had vowed to stick with cats as pets. The beagle became a regular entry on the grocery list. And we regularly ignored it.

One night my better half observed that there were beagle puppies advertised in the newspaper. I tried to ignore her. But the next day, I dropped by the place with the pups. Later, the two of us went back for a closer look.

That night, when our eldest got home from work, Annie, an eight-week-old beagle puppy, was sleeping on her bed

The morning after we brought the pup home, I stopped by the home of a friend for coffee. I announced that we now have a beagle.

“We know a guy who used to have a beagle,” my friend said. “I was always surprised the dog lived as long as he did. Beagles march to a different drummer.”

On Monday I sought advice from the newsroom expert on dogs.

“Beagles like to dig, you know,” he said.

I inquired as to the best way to break them of that habit.

“Some say the best way is when they dig a hole, bury ‘em in it.” he advised.

A couple of nights later I found a dog book containing a beagle profile:

“Beagles are cheerful and friendly, but with a tendency to willfulness..” said the book. “They cannot be left alone for too long.”

“Despite the ominous warnings, Annie the Beagle is the main attraction at our house. Her mood can be gauged by her little, pointed tail. If the tail is pointing at the ground, Annie is sad. If it is straight up she is happy. And the faster it wags, the greater the degree of her happiness.

The one family member who isn’t impressed with the new arrival is KC the Cat. She is pressed into service as a companion for Annie the Beagle when everyone else is gone. The pup seems to enjoy the company. KC, however, has expressed to us her belief that puppysitting is a job below the dignity of any cat with an ounce of self-respect. I gave her my solemn promise to keep her duties a secret from the general public. That seemed to make her feel better.

Fortunately K.C. the Cat has never learned to read.

In the movie classic Jaws, a marine biologist describes the Great White Shark as “nature’s most efficient eating machine.”

That researcher obviously doesn’t own a beagle.

Annie the Beagle has been a member of our family for four years. Although this writer and my partner in life have had dogs around all our lives, Annie has given us new insight.

All dogs like to eat. But most know when to quit. If you put out a big bowl of dog food, a border collie will satisfy its hunger and leave the remainder of the food for later – maybe later in the day, maybe until the next morning.

Beagles – at least our beagle – is not bound by any inborn food limits.

If you give Annie a bowl of food in the morning, the container is empty in less time than it takes to write this sentence. If you were to immediately fill up the bowl again, Annie would have the new batch inhaled quicker than I can hang up on a telephone salesman.

My choice of words in the above paragraph isn’t accidental. Annie the Beagle does not eat food – she inhales it –seldom bothering to chew anything.

When Annie finishes eating, she spends the remainder of her day thinking about food – checking and rechecking her bowl on the theory that the Dog Food Fairy might have slipped in during her absence and left a little something extra .

Like the Great White Shark, beagles will eat just about anything. Annie’s diet includes – but is not limited to – any variety of meat, fish or poultry; cucumbers, popcorn, broccoli and cauliflower (cooked or raw), green beans, asparagus, potatoes, mushrooms, olives, bread, cereal, potato chips, radishes and dairy products – especially cheese. She loves any style corn but is particularly fond of eating it when a family member holds the cob and rotates it while she carefully nibbles the individual rows of kernels. She will run through her entire repertoire of tricks (roll over, spin, shake, jump and beg) for a tiny bite of carrot.

But most of all Annie loves WEENIES. The mere mention of that particular food item sends her into a dance of anticipation.

Because our dog does not understand the concept of “saving something for later,” we cannot go on a trip and leave her with one of those self-feeding bowls. If the feeder’s reservoir contained twenty pounds of food, Annie would try to eat it all in the first hour following our departure – and I would be willing to bet money that she would succeed. If the binge killed her, on our return we would find her lying there with a contented look.

When our daughters visit, they suggest that Annie is overweight. The word “fat” sometimes is used. I think that is an exaggeration. The dog is well filled-out–leaning toward portly or maybe even pleasingly plump. But classifying her as fat is a cruel exaggeration. Fat dogs aren’t quick dogs. And you have never seen anything move as fast as Annie when someone says, “Want a weenie?”

A friend who knows more about dogs than I do, says Annie is obsessed with food because she is a “pack” animal. Animals that live in packs gobble their food as fast as possible because he who hesitates goes hungry. Annie has never figured out that as a pack of one, the only animal she is competing with for food is herself. Even if she understood, she would not care.

As for Great White Sharks, they are lucky beagles aren’t strong swimmers.

Annie the Beagle, our Dog in Residence, has attained some notoriety in the neighborhood and the area since she joined us three years ago. Because I have written several columns about the trials and tribulations of being a beagle owner, people sometimes stop me on the street to ask about Annie’s health and mine.

But recently, our pooch’s fame spread over a much wider area. We now sometimes refer to her as Annie the Electronic Beagle.

It all started one evening when I was “surfing the net” – browsing the Internet using my computer. During the course of my investigation, I bumped into a site titled, “Beagles on the Web,” It includes an entire page of links to the home pages of beagle owners in the United States and Canada. Click on the name of a dog, and you usually get pictures and a description of that animal – “Here’s Barney as a puppy peering out of the sleeve of my husband’s shirt. Here’s Barney at six months eating my husband’s shirt, etc. Some pages even include sound clips of beagles baying, barking or sniffing.

After looking over Beagles on the Web page, I decided I could contribute. I rounded up several columns I have written on Life with Annie and put them together on apage on my web site. I titled the collection, The Beagle Chronicles. Then I E-mailed Beagles on the Web and asked them to add Annie to their links.

Things move fast in cyberspace. Within days, I started getting E-mail from web surfers.

A couple in Chapin, S.C. said the Beagle Chronicles is a regular stop for them. They told me about their 15-year-old beagles, Ranger and Runner. That suggests we may have to put up with Annie 12 more years.

A woman affiliated with the University of Kansas said she’s convinced her beagle, Dizzy, is part cat because he spends all day looking out the window or sleeping. (Beagles are great sleepers).

I even got a message from a guy in Lancaster, Va. who saw the Beagle Chronicles and wants to immortalize Annie by painting her picture on a pillow (for a price).

But the best letter came from St. John’s Newfoundland.

“I got a beagle in September and my life has not been normal ever since,” wrote Melanie Watkins. “I sometimes wondered if our beagle was a little unusual. I am relieved to know he isn’t the only one like it.”

Recently I learned The Beagle Chronicles was named the “Sniff of the week” on the Beagles on the Web page.

I’m guessing there are similar Internet sites for collies, German shepherds, Dobermans and most other dogs. But judging from the responses I have received to the Beagle Chronicles, I believe owners of that breed view the Internet connection differently — as a support group. It gives me a warm feeling to know my columns about Annie are helping some of those folks realize their pets aren’t retarded – they are just beagles.

Annie’s new fame hasn’t affected her in the least. She still leaps from her bed and races to the window to scream obscenities at passing joggers and neighborhood canines. She continues to scheme to steal the cats’ food. And she still spends hours tracking herself around the backyard. If she ever catches herself I’ll have a great column.

When a household contains a mixture of pets, the different groups usually learn to get along–or at least tolerate each other. Unfortunately, that hasn’t been the case at our house. Sides have been chosen and altercations have occurred. But the conflict hasn’t played out the way most folks would expect.

The senior member of our menagerie is Lovey the Cat. Lovey has been with us about nine years. She is a mild mannered creature with long white fur and big round eyes that gives her a perpetual deer-in-the-headlights look.

Annie the Beagle recently celebrated her fifth birthday. In Annie’s view, the world revolves around her. Annie doesn’t know she is a dog. She believes she is a vertically challenged human with an exceptional appetite and a super-sensitive nose.

Over the years, Annie and Lovey have learned to tolerate each other. They don’t seek each other’s company, but they can pass in a narrow space without growling.

Ivy the Cat joined out family about six months ago. In her previous life, Ivy was a street cat who hung around one particular house. She kept same attitude for about two weeks after arriving at our home. Then we made the mistake of allowing her into our bedroom on cold nights. Now Ivy is a house cat–more exactly, a fat house cat. She has turned into a real tub, with nothing to do but lay around and eat.

Recently, we allowed Ivy to explore areas of the house beyond our bedroom. We hoped this she would make friends with the other cat. That hasn’t happened. Every time they meet, there was a lot of hissing, yowling and swatting. We tried to remedy the problem by shutting the door that leads from the living room to the bedrooms. Ivy stays in the bedroom area and Lovey stays in the front of the house. The living area is also where Annie the Beagle hangs out.

One night, I went back to the bedrooms and forgot to close the living room door. Lovey followed me. Within seconds there was a lot of screeching, thumping and thumping. By the time I broke up the altercation, Ivy the Cat had removed enough of Lovey the Cat’s white fur to knit a sizable sweater. Lovey is at a distinct disadvantage in a cat brawl because she doesn’t have front claws.

Cats are a lot like nations. After coming out on top when Lovey attempted to invade her domain, Ivy apparently decided she had the firepower to expand her territory.

One morning, I walked down the bedroom hallway without turning on the lights. That’s why I didn’t see Ivy the Cat. My first inking of her presence was when I opened the door and she shot into the forbidden zone, looking around for a cat the whip.

Fortunately, when Ivy made her charge, Lovey wasn’t in that room. My yelling, however, attracted attention. Annie the Beagle came boiling in from the kitchen to see what the commotion was about.

Normally, Ivy the cat stands her ground when the dog shows up. And normally Annie backs off because she knows this cat has real claws. On this morning, however, Ivy was in unexplored territory, expecting to meet a claw-less feline opponent–not a onrushing member of the hound family with forty pounds of momentum.

The invader slammed on the brakes and made a fast retreat to the no-bark zone in the bedrooms.

So, Ivy the Cat continues to live in the back of the house while Lovey the Cat and Annie the Beagle occupy the front half. Since the last incident, Lovey even seems to be a little more tolerant of her companion. Occasionally, she exchanges obscenities with Ivy through the closed door, looking over her shoulder periodically to see if Annie is within backup range. She doesn’t understand that any heroics on the dog’s part were purely accidental.

Necessity, sometimes breeds strange alliances.

It could get really interesting in the spring, when it warms up outdoors. All three pets love the patio. And that’s one area none of them like to share.

Mother Nature gave the beagle one of the most sensitive noses in the canine world. But I’m suspicious the dog paid a high price for its keen sense of smell.

Annie the Beagle is primarily a house dog. She spends much of the day asleep in her doggie bed in the family room, in front of the fireplace. She needs as much rest as possible because of what happens every time she steps into the back yard.

If the beagles of the world had an official motto, it would be read “Born to smell.” A beagle’s nose is its life. Whenever Annie goes outside, she believes she has an inherited obligation to determine who or what has been in the area since her previous patrol.

Annie’s first chore is to take a fast lap to clear the yard of freeloading robins who are harvesting worms and insects from the grass. The birds scatter to nearby trees or the top of the back fence, screaming obscenities at their tormentor.

With the robin patrol completed, Annie gets down to some serious smelling.

Most dogs concentrate on one particular scent. Annie, however, uses the shotgun approach. She races back and forth across the grass, nose to the ground. Despite careful study, this writer has been unable to identify any logical pattern to the dog’s search technique. Her head whips from side-to-side like a high-pressure hose that has slipped from the grasp of a fireman.

When Annie is in full sniff, her nose makes a sound like a Huey helicopter approaching a hot landing zone during the Vietnam War – a low frequency thump that can be heard all over the neighborhood.

What makes Annie’s search technique interesting is that at the same time she is thumping, which involves inhaling, she also is snorting, which requires her to exhale. The periodic snorting is necessary to expel grass, twigs, small insects and other assorted debris she accidentally sucks into her nose during the thumping process.

Thumping and snorting at the same time is a pretty remarkable fete by any standard. But Annie takes smelling to a whole new level. For every 10 thumps and two snorts, she throws in an excited yelp, just to let us know she’s hot on the trail of something.

We’ve come to accept Annie’s antics. But it’s embarrassing when someone from the neighborhood passes our residence during an evening stroll and spots our little brown, black and white Dervish whirling, thumping, snorting and yelping around the backyard, floppy ears flying. It would be even more embarrassing if the passersby knew that much of the time Annie is following her own scent. In other words, she’s in hot pursuit of herself.

It often requires thirty minutes or more for Annie to make a thorough sweep of the yard. But returning to the house creates another problem. In the dog’s absence, humans have walked on the floors, and sat in chairs. The two resident cats have made their regular rounds. And all those new trails have to be fully traced and cataloged. That means more sniffing. And if a stranger has been in the house in Annie’s absence, we get the full whirling, thumping, snorting and yelping routine again.

When she finally completes her interior security check, it’s back to her bed to rest up for the next patrol.

Sometimes I find myself wishing Mother Nature would have given beagles a little less nose and a few more brains.

Duke the Dog was a member of our household for about a year. Duke, who appeared to be part collie and part wolf, was eventually given to a nice lady who lived on a farm where he had more room to roam and dig holes.

We were driving past Duke’s home recently when my partner in life observed that the change was a good one because the dog was too big and too smart for us to handle. I agreed, noting that’s what makes Annie the Beagle, the perfect dog for our family.

One of the reasons we adopted a beagle was that they aren’t very big But dimensions can be misleading. The only thing denser than a beagle’s body is a lead ingot of similar size. The advantage of lead is that it doesn’t squirm around and try to lick your face with a 15-inch tongue.

But a beagle’s body isn’t the only thing that’s dense.

Most dogs will fall for a trick a few times before getting wise. A beagle just keeps falling and falling and falling…

Take the case of “Oh my gosh!”

Our family room features a large picture window. The sill is only a couple of feet above the floor. This means Annie the Beagle can put her front feet on the sill and watch the world go by outside.

Annie takes it personally when someone walks past on the street outside. That situation is cause for considerable baying, bellowing and yipping as she watches them from her lookout.

Annie has better things to do, however, than stand in the window all day — mainly sleep. Therefore, she depends on the other members of the household to keep her informed on what’s going on outside.

The trigger phrase is “Oh, my gosh!”

The dog can be anywhere in the house, asleep or awake. But if someone utters the above three words, Annie lets out a bellow and makes a dash for the family room window.

Our guardian always takes the most direct route to the window. If you happen to be dozing in an easy chair that is between the dog and the window, you run the serious risk of being trampled and deafened.

If Annie gets to her observation post and discovers there really is somebody there, she shrieks for someone to open the back door as she races to that exit. Once outside, she shouts dog obscenities through the chain link fence until the passersby are out of sight.

Nineteen times out of 20, however, there is nobody outside the window. The “Oh my gosh!” usually is uttered by one of our daughters just to liven the place up.

The amazing thing is that no matter how many bogus alarms are issued, Annie never loses her enthusiasm. As I write this I have just finished yelling “Oh my gosh!” The dog is still up in the window, staring intently down the street. And if I say it again five minutes from now, she’ll be right back in the window.

It doesn’t take much to entertain Annie the Beagle. Obviously, it doesn’t take much to entertain her human associates either.

Annie the Beagle has been a member of our family for three years. She is a valued companion and a continuing source of entertainment.

But like all animals (and people) Annie does have flaws. For instance: she likes to roll on smelly stuff she finds in the yard – the more disgusting the better. Dead birds are one of her favorites. Occasionally, she chases rabbits in her sleep, until she yelps herself awake. But her worst flaw is her lack of credibility. That may be partially our fault.

The flower arrangements from our daughter’s wedding wound up on the stone hearth in front of the fireplace. We decided to record their beauty for posterity by taking a picture. At the last minute, someone decided to add some personality to the photo by placing Annie in the middle of the flowers.

When the prints came back from the processor, there was Annie, surrounded by pretty flowers, facing the camera with her eyes tightly closed. She looked like a badly-done porcelain knickknack you might find at a garage sale on the 10-cent table. To the best of my knowledge, every person who has seen the photo has snickered or laughed out loud.

Annie’s flower picture hasn’t been seen by many people outside the immediate family. But her neighborhood image is in shambles without the photo.

A lot of folks take evening walks around our subdivision. Some bring dogs along on their strolls. As they pass our backyard, Annie comes boiling over to the fence, screaming threats, insults and challenges. There was a time when her bellowing actually made folks move to the opposite side of the street. But after enduring a few weeks of her antics, most walkers were more irritated than intimidated. Eventually, their irritation evolved into amusement.

Today, when Annie roars to fence, most passersby just smile. If there is someone with them unfamiliar with the dog, the veterans usually say something like, “Don’t worry. It’s only Annie the Beagle.”

And the bandana incident didn’t boost her credibility.

One day, our youngest daughter tied a shocking pink bandana around Annie’s neck. After a few minutes of rolling on the floor trying to get it off, the dog apparently decided she liked the her new accessory.

The incident took place inside the house. The problem arose when someone let Annie into the backyard without removing the neckerchief.

The dog had only been outside a few minutes when two elementary school-age kids strolled by our house. When she spotted the boy and girl, Annie went into standard ballistic mode, and raced to the fence baying like she was one stride behind a fleeing mountain lion. The kids didn’t run and they didn’t smile. They just stood there with confused looks on their faces, staring at the noisy little dog wearing a pink bandana.

Annie is the second significant dog in our lives. The first was Candee, a border collie who lived with us 13 years. Candee was highly intelligent and always was careful not to do anything that might embarrass her or the family. I’m sure she wouldn’t have stepped outside the house wearing a pink bandana. Over the years I shot hundreds of pictures of Candee. We don’t have a single photo where she has her eyes closed.

Recently, we saw a woman in a store parking lot carrying a tiny, cute beagle puppy. I told her we once had a baby beagle but it grew up. She appeared puzzled by my statement. I didn’t elaborate. It’s better if she learns from experience.

Annie the Beagle is rewriting the dictionary.

Since she joined the family two years ago, Annie’s favorite spot in our house has been her doggie bed in front of the fireplace hearth in the family room. Her abode is sometimes referred to as “the Beagle’s Nest,” On other occasions it is known as “The Den of the Filthy Beast.” The Filthy Beast title came into being one day when this writer was watching an old Cary Grant Movie called Father Goose. Given some of the habits of our pet, the term seemed appropriate.

From the Beagle’s Nest, the Filthy Beast surveys her domain, constantly looking and listening.

The dog’s primary focus is the refrigerator, located on the far side of a counter that separates the kitchen from the family room. If she sees the refrigerator door open, she leaps from her bed and races to that location. She stands in front of the open refrigerator, wistfully gazing at its contents — much like small boys of the 1950s devoured the pages of the toy section of the Montgomery Ward catalog as Christmas approached.

The Filthy Beast’s movements usually are restricted to two rooms by a folding wooden “child proof” gate that can be closed to keep her out of the rear portion of the house. That area is recognized as the domain of our two cats.

Annie often acts like her hearing isn’t one of her strong points. If she jumps up on the couch she can’t hear a human yelling at her from a distance of five feet. But she has a selective impairment.

Although Annie can’t see the entrance to Cat Land from her nest, she can tell the difference between someone just pulling the gate across the doorway, and actually hooking it, even when she’s asleep.

If the dog doesn’t hear the faint scraping sound made by the gate hook sliding into the catch, she immediately shifts to wide awake mode. As soon as the human who improperly closed the gate leaves the scene, Annie tip toes to the barrier, noses it open, and makes a run for the cat food dish.

It takes the Filthy Beast about two seconds to inhale all the cat food. She does it quickly because she knows that the moment we discover what she is doing, we will yell “Bad Dog!” drag her to the back door and boot her out in the yard. Unfortunately, Annie’s love of cat food is much greater than her fear of punishment.

A some point in the past, someone coined the term “wolf” to describe people or animals who eat their food as quickly as possible. Because wolves run in packs, eating is a highly competitive business. The wolf that doesn’t wolf its food goes hungry.

I have seen films of packs of wolves wolfing their food. I have also seen Annie the Beagle eat. Beagles are pack animals, too. Based on my observations, I firmly believe that a much more accurate term for gluttony should be based on the latter animal rather than the former.

Besides, “Beagling” a meal has a nicer ring to it that “wolfing.”

Dog books and magazines always are packed with pictures of every imaginable variety of canine. I have noticed, however, that one breed is underrepresented. You don’t see many photos of beagles in those publications.

There’s a reason.

Annie the Beagle recently celebrated her first anniversary as a member of our household. Her presence has been an educational experience. We’ve learned there are certain things a beagle owner must accept as a part of life.

If you look up the definition of the word persistence in the dictionary, I’m sure you will see an editor’s note advising: “see beagle.”

All of our previous dogs like to roughhouse. But all of them had their limits. After a certain amount of chasing the stick or the ball or wrestling, your average dog either gets tired of just plain loses interest.

But beagles never quit.

If you throw a stick across the yard, Annie the Beagle will chase it down, pounce on it and bring it back. If you throw it again she will bring it back again, and again and again. She has never voluntarily quit. You must either hide the stick or throw it as far as possible and then run inside before she can return.

Beagles look like small dogs. A 40-lb. bar of lead is small, too. But that doesn’t make it any easier to pick up. And a bar of lead doesn’t twitch, squirm, grunt and try to lick your face with a 15-inch-long tongue.

When you combine a beagle’s size-to-weight ratio with its persistence, you have an animal that can be very tiring. If you wrestle with Annie the Beagle and try to fend off her charges, she uses her front paws and the weight behind them to push your arms out of the way. If you successfully defend yourself and push her away, she bounces back to the attack like a steel spring. And no matter how many time you push her away, she keeps coming back for more.

Now one might think that the above qualities, plus their extraordinary sense of smell, would make beagles excellent candidates for police work. But they have a fatal flaw in their character. They will give up the hottest scent or the most savage attack for the proper incentive.

All the Criminal would have to say is, “Hey. Would you like a weenie?”

Annie the Beagle is one of the world’s great eating machines. She will eat dog food, cat food, cooked meat, raw meat, popcorn, carrots, green beans, broccoli, pretzels and peppers.

Actually, Annie doesn’t eat anything. She simply inhales anything chewable, burps and wants more. If Mother Nature gave beagles taste buds, the effort was wasted. They never keep anything in their mouths long enough to savor the flavor. That’s fortunate considering some of the other stuff they eat that I haven’t listed because of reader sensitivities.

Some readers may think that my assessment of beagles is just a case of poor parenting — that all the problems could be solved with some strict discipline. But those folks have never seen the changes that occur when the beagle owner attempts to be strict.

At the first utterance of the words “bad dog!” Annie the Beagle’s head and tail droop until they almost touch the ground. She staggers heart-broken to her bed next to the fireplace and falls into it. She hangs her head out of the bed and looks at you with an “I don’t deserve to live.” expression.

No animal can match a beagle when it comes to being sad. And when Annie throws in a soft groan and a sigh, any sensitive, caring human would do exactly what we do — offer her a weenie.

Which also goes a long way toward explaining her weight.