The blackberries have put in an early appearance this year, and they’re a welcome addition to our walks by the local farms. Beanie & Biggles were the first to spot them this time around; in previous years it was up to me to detect and introduce this tasty mid-walk snack, but I think those ever-active Beagle noses have finally become attuned to the scent of the berries. Certainly the first I knew of the berries was when Beanie got interested in a hedge and went into her surprisingly refined and delicate picking routine.
The berries may be here, but only a few of them have ripened and assumed the dark color that gives them their name. Beanie’s smart enough to hunt down only the ripe ones, but Biggles is less discerning.
I don’t know if he actually likes the taste of the unripe ones, or whether his stomach simply has more say in the matter than his tastebuds, but he’ll happily stand there munching away until I convince him to get on with the walk. And when we finally get back home there’s even more munching to be done, because it’s time for breakfast!
I’m sure other dogs get excited about their breakfasts, but I can’t believe that any of them get quite as excited as The Bigglet. He woofs, he howls, and his rear-end wags so much that he can’t keep his bum still in a sit no matter how hard he tries. I guess he really believes the old adage that “breakfast is the most important meal of the day”. When he gets it he always, and I do mean always, insists on spilling some of it on the floor. Susan and I have often pondered what’s going through his head when he does that. I’m convinced it’s a celebration, like someone throwing a bundle of cash in the air. Regardless, it’s not a particularly wise thing to do because Beanie eats more efficiently, finishes first and goes after his stray kibble. Even worse, the odd piece of kibble sometimes goes under the hall table and I have to recover it before Beanie digs up the flooring in her bid to get at it. But Biggles never seems to mind, he’s just so happy that it’s breakfast time.
That’s the great thing about my optimistic little boy; he ignores all the little knock-backs in life and rejoices in every single good thing that comes his way, even if it’s a routine event. That’s a good way to be! And on the 28th of the month, when it’s his sixth birthday, he’s going to have seventeen new reasons to rejoice, sixteen of which squeak. I wonder how much his bum will wag then?