Trivial Pursuits: Beagle on the loose
By:
Jamie Hult/Staff writer
Our puppy came to us about four months ago by way of a local rescue group. Of the four male puppies in the litter – who had been named John, Paul, George and Ringo – two of the beautiful, blue-ticked beagles were still available when we inquired.
We renamed our 10-week-old puppy Sherlock and set to work house-training, leash-training and spoiling him as much as possible.
While Sherlock regularly finds all manner of trash and treasure on daily walks, it wasn’t until last week that it dawned on us how apt his name truly is.
Let me preface this by saying that I’ve owned several dogs before, and I’ve never before had to look for my lost dog.
I should also add that while beagles are one of my favorite dog breeds (up there with Corgis, Cavalier King Charleses, and Tibetan Spaniels), my prior experience with beagles consisted of a mere three months of pet-sitting a friend’s beagle, Clare Bear. In these three months Clare pushed a dining room chair across the floor, stood on it and ate a bunch of chicken nuggets off the stovetop. She also ate Santa’s cookies, which were plated atop a high bookcase, probably by bumping the bookcase over and over until the cookies fell. There was no chair in that instance. Somehow the glass of milk was still on the shelf, untouched.
My point: Beagles are like Houdinis.
Also: I can’t plead ignorance, even though I’d like to.
On Wednesday another child came over to play with my daughter. The girls came in the house together, and…somehow the front door didn’t get shut.
And somehow the only adult home at the time didn’t realize it until it was too late.
I took off out the front door trying really, really hard not to feel or appear hysterical.
My daughter is emotional enough for both of us. Come to think of it, I can be, too.
I think I failed, because one look at my face and Greta was in tears.
I tried really, really hard to rein it in and concentrate on the task at hand. My daughter went in to search the house. I knew Sherlock wasn’t in there, but it gave me a few seconds to figure out what to do. I didn’t use it. I started yelling for our dog and running up and down the street like an idiot.
After a minute of that, I alerted Greta to my new plan and hopped in the car. I headed to the top of the street, toward one of the many fields in which Sherlock typically sees and wants to pounce on lots and lots of bunnies.
Two walkers saw me cruising and heard me yelling. The man said they’d seen him. A beautiful beagle puppy running pell-mell through the neighborhood with no owner or leash is easy to spot. After a pause that felt like forever – I think they were waiting for me to say something, so eventually I did that “get on with it” hand motion, which in hindsight was incredibly rude. Still. I was distraught. Sherlock had been spotted near the fence ahead. I parked and jumped out.
There’s this very wide ravine-type space between my street and the backs of the houses on the next street. It is essentially a huge cornstalk hayfield with really tall reeds and weeds and lots of mud and a number of snakes, I can only guess. No way was I going in that. No way was I contemplating that.
I didn’t really have to. After a minute, maybe two – time stops when you’re frantic – I spotted a small, black-and-tan-but-mostly-black puppy behind the house about five houses down. He was sniffing and looking happy. He didn’t seem to know or care that he was lost.
Here I broke all recorded speeds known to man. Remind me to start exercising.
When I was close – close enough to call his name and expect him to hear me and dart over into his loving owner’s arms – Sherlock trotted away from the ravine pit between two houses and out of sight.
Trying not to pant I turned the corner and saw Lola’s grandfather holding Sherlock.
At his feet was Annie, his Japanese chin, whose name I do know.
I said “thank you” about 30 times, scooped up the pup and put him firmly in my passenger seat.
I alerted all concerned parties that Sherlock was home, that Lola’s grandfather had found him, even though I had also found him, technically, and issued another 30 “thank you’s” to my daughter’s friend and her family, who had formed a search party and set out on a bike, a scooter and some other contraption with a sidecar.
That night my family and I talked about our love for Sherlock and the importance of checking behind us. We covered Sherlock in kisses. This weekend we may buy a screen door.
Not more than an hour later, my adventurous pup had been stung by a hornet in the back yard. His muzzle swelled on one side. That was emergency call to the after-hours and weekend vet number one.
On Sunday Sherlock got on top of a chest of drawers in a bedroom and into a pill bottle (which involved jumping onto the bed, stepping onto the adjacent nightstand and climbing up onto the adjacent chest). Emergency vet call number two.
It’s been a busy week. Time for this anxiety-ridden beagle owner to re-pet proof the house.
