"Jerk the beagle!"

In doggy heaven, there are lots of little beagles howling with delight over Uno's victory last night at the Westminster Kennel Club. http://www.westminsterkennelclub.org/




If you have a high tolerance for pain, you might enjoy this video to demonstrate what those poochie partiers might be doing.

There's a soft spot in my heart for one of those little revelers in particular.

Daisy J. (1985-2000)

Sweet, confused, neurotic Daisy was a beloved pet who joined our family when I was a teenager and lived the most cat-like existence of any dog I know. Daisy dodged many figurative bullets in her fifteen or so years, not the least of which included her beagle-driven propensity to flee from the confines her ample and safe yard to play in traffic. Living near a busy street, we had lost another cherished pet, Molly (1980-1984) when she darted out into traffic. It was traumatic (we saw it happen); it was tragic (she was hit by a classmate of mine that I'd known since kindergarten whose identity I will protect since I wouldn't want any schipperke vigilantes on his tail); and it made us very protective.

Which just made "The Escape" all the more amusing for Daisy.

On a very regular basis, Daisy would escape the yard and run. And run. And run. I have vivid memories of being a teenager searching for my dog with, gasp/shudder...a parent nearby. A parent who was yelling. Loudly. Like, as if, they WANTED to call attention to us and our disobedient canine. Needless to say, it was embarrassing. It was frustrating. It was repetitive. And for Daisy, it was sure happiness.

She'd hear us, she'd recognize us, she'd wag her tail excitedly, and then she'd run...in the opposite direction. Hours and hours and hours of my life - even well into adulthood - were spent chasing this neurotic beast. I'm getting irritated just writing about it.

Solution=Obedience School.

I'd like to think that I was trying to fix a problem or help Daisy, but in reality, I was probably just looking for an excuse to drive my mom's car after school. At age sixteen, I took Daisy to obedience school held in the same building where I later took aerobics (can't believe I did sit-ups on that floor). Led by an older, married couple who drove a camper to class and seemed as if they'd spent their entire adult life around dogs, the class was filled with dog owners seeking answers from the oracles. The instructors knew the quirks of the labs, the poodles, the schnauzerdoodles, and rescued mutts. They told each pet's owner things that they otherwise would never know about their dog, the breed, and whether or not they'd made a good choice in selecting their pet.

Needless to say, beagles were not their prized students. Yeah yeah yeah, all creatures great and small, yeah yeah yeah, loved all doggies, yeah yeah yeah. Whatever. Daisy was the class clown, unruly, unable to stay in line, and I'm pretty sure they thought I was amateur. Or immature. Both were correct, for sure, and being Daisy's owner just got more and more humiliating.

One evening, early in the six week program, we were parading our pooches in a circle practicing the proper "lead". The instructor, with his big belly and combover, was up on a stage giving instruction like a square dance caller, while his wife (whom I'm now picturing in a square dance pennifore and lots of ruffles), was working the floor and demonstrating proper technique. "Walk! German shepard," square dance caller would say, or "Left arm, dalmation," and then he SHOUTED. I didn't even see it coming, but it was directed right at me. Loudly, forcefully, with harsh quickness that sounded like he was spitting, he shouted, "JERK the BEAGLE! JERK the BEAGLE!"

"Jerk the beagle??" Oh. My. God. You have SO GOT to be kidding me.

Needless to say, obedience school didn't turn out to be very effective.

Daisy had lots of interaction with medical personnel. I'm not going to say veterinarians, because Daisy wasn't that selective. Take, for example, the time she ate bushels of cherries that had fallen in our orchard and her belly became so distended from the pits lodged in it that she appeared to have softball sized tumor. I think she got x-rays at the dentist. Or was her time spent in the dental chair when she was diagnosed with the life-threatening mouth tumor? And my dear, sweet parents drove over an hour and half to take her to a vet school where they would confirm the worst. This dog has only a limited time. Weeks. Maybe months at best.

Through tears and treatments, my parents indulged the beloved pet in McDonalds drive-thru. "Yeah, can I have a quarter pounder without cheese or pickles? And can you hold the lettuce, tomato, mustard? It's for my dog. Yep. That's right. Thank you."

Are you kidding me? Daisy had been waiting her whole life for this. She wasn't going to go out now. Seven years and many mcnuggets later, that dog was still kicking. And running. And running. And running.

Ultimately, Daisy the cat, er dog, did find her final resting spot. Our world is a little quieter without her yowling, and it's nice for my folks to be able to leave the gate open for a few minutes without fear of having to run a 5K after bringing in the garbage can.

But this morning, when I read about Champion Uno, my heart pulled a little for Daisy J. And I truly hope she sang one hell of a song with all her little beagle buddies last night.

And that she ran and ran and ran and ran.