In the last two weeks it seems like autumn has been and gone and now we’re into winter: mostly cold, wet and windy with the odd dry but extra, extra cold day. On one one of those extra cold yet sunny mornings, I put on a warm jacket and went to sit in the garden with the pups; they always enjoy playing and exploring more when one of us is out with them.

Out of the blue, Monkey interrupted his play & perimeter checks  and leaped onto my lap. This is unusual; Daisy’s normally my go-to lap dog , while Monkey prefers Susan because she tends lean right back in the chair, producing a larger area that is better able to accommodate a Monkey and all his components. Nevertheless, this morning he had his rear paws on my knees, his front paws on my chest and his head right in front of mine. I told him how nice it was to receive this special visit and ruffled his lugs, and there was much wagging.

Unlike Daisy, Monkey’s not keen on hugs, but he does like to go nose-to-nose with a humie and stare into their eyes, all the while making little snuffling noises. It’s a wonderfully gentle and intimate gesture – one so disarming that I forgot the other, even more intimate thing that goes along with it. As my lips parted just a little for an in-breath, he shot his tongue straight into my mouth and for an instant our tongues made contact. This turned the “awww” moment into an “ugghhh”, but as I reflexively did little spits and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, Monkey walked forward up my chest, putting my forehead in line with his neck. The “awww” came right back as I pressed my nose into his chest fur and he rested his chin on the top of my head. A moment later it was double-awww: Daisy leaped up onto my lap and crawled through the Monkey tunnel, emerging between his legs to put little kisses on my chin.

Moments like these more than make up for all the poo-pickups, bed-washings, extra vacuuming sessions and unidentified floaters in my coffee cup. They are also mostly adequate compensation for having Monkey’s tongue in my mouth, even when I suspect it was licking his bumhole only a few seconds earlier :)

How is it possible that this little fellow is now four years old? Where did all the time go?

I guess the first couple of years flew by because Monkey and his then sister Poppy were just one half of our Beagle pack, but however those years got behind us, The Monkster has indeed just celebrated his fourth birthday.

For much of his life Monkey has been convinced that the world is out to get him, and has treated anything unfamiliar with suspicion. Now – as a more experienced Beagle of the world – he’s learning that not everything is necessarily a Monkeycide attempt.

He greets his harness with a wag these days instead of trying to dodge it, and trots through sea water at the beach by choice (as long as it’s not more than a couple of inches deep). He lets me clean his teeth really thoroughly, even to the point of using a descaler tool. Most impressively, he overcame much of his traditional caution when I presented him with the first of his home-baked 4th birthday biccies.

Ordinarily a UFI (Unidentified Food Item) should undergo a series of rigorous tests prior to consumption, but Daisy had speed-swallowed hers and was already looking to steal his, so Monkey took his life in his paws and put the biccie in his mouth. He didn’t chew immediately, but once he did, he clearly liked the taste of it and showed no hesitation when I offered a second serving. This was a great relief to me as my boy – despite his name – is not a huge fan of bananas (the first key ingredient) and has learned to associate peanut butter (the second key ingredient) with attempts to disguise his worming tablets. If anyone wants the recipe for these biccies, you’ll find it here.

Since his last birthday Monkey has gained an appreciation of the humie bed. He still won’t sleep under the covers, but he does like to luxuriate on it whenever he gets the chance, especially if he gets solo access. When his grunting and rolling attracts the attention of me or Susan, he thumps the covers with his tail and presents his tummy for a comprehensive tickling session.

My bond with Monkey’s predecessor – Biggles – grew very strong over the years and I often compare the two of them. Biggles’ defining characteristic was his expectation-free, happy-go-lucky attitude to life. That’s not Monkey at all – he certainly does worry about things, but he has his own equally admirable, stand-out quality: he is the gentlest, best natured dog I’ve ever known. This is especially evident in his relationship with Daisy; her puppy license expired some time ago and she can be a spoilt little madam at times, but Monkey remains the (almost) perfect gentleman towards her; he still lets her drink first when they’re at the water bowl, always holds back when they’re playing, and tolerates her evening humping session, even if it’s really vigorous and he’d rather just have a nap.

I say “almost” the perfect gentleman, because he does occasionally push her off the sofa, pretending that it was an accident and he was only stretching, but that’s not naughty or ill-natured, it’s just cheeky; if you’re a young Beagle boy and you’re not a bit cheeky there’s something wrong!

Quite frequently Susan and I reminisce about Beanie & Biggles and how they always seemed to have everything dialled up to eleven, like fictional rock band Spinal Tap. On walks they were always a handful, and whenever Susan cooked a chicken the whole neighbourhood knew about it due to the resultant wailing and woofing. Their successors Monkey, Poppy and Daisy have never been quite as “wired to the moon”, but very recently Monkey and Daisy have been playing catch-up.

The most recent chicken cook-up had them making overly frequent pilgrimmages to the kitchen in hope of taking an illicit nibble from the still cooling, foil-covered carcass. Being a short-arse, Daisy had almost no chance of turning her fantasy into reality; Monkey – standing tall on his back legs and resting his front paws and chin on the worktop – posed a very credible threat. He never actually made a try for the chicken, but he couldn’t pass through the kitchen without have a good look at it, and for some reason this brought back memories of an incredibly vivid dream I’d had way back when Biggles was a youngster.

In my dream Biggles had a pet sheep which lived in our lounge; every morning before he headed out for Beagle primary school (because in dream logic little all little Beagle boys go to school and have a pet sheep), Biggles would stand and peer over the baby gate to check on his sheep. He had a little backpack on, a school cap, a grin on his face and a very, very waggy tail. Now Monkey wasn’t wearing a backpack or cap as he checked on the cooked chicken, but his demeanour was otherwise a perfect match for the Biggles in my dream. Susan reminded me that if Biggles had ever got that close to a chicken he’d have boinged and grabbed it, or at least knocked it off the worktop into the waiting jaws of Beanie. Come to think of it, we’re very fortunate that Monkey still hasn’t realised that his unusual height combined with his jumping ability would put almost anything in the kitchen within his reach, and merely closing a door would be no barrier to him.

Daisy – unlike her innocent and unassuming brother – is very quick to capitalize on any new skills or abilities she gains. In the last week I’ve had to rescue her from the little wire-fenced enclosure around Poppy’s burial site numerous times. She got in there for the first time a few months ago – with Monkey’s help – but now she’s developed a jumping/climbing technique that lets her gain access unaided. Once in there she digs a bit (fortunately not  deep enough to uncover Poppy, but certainly enough to damage the perennial flowers we’ve planted), then she discovers that she can’t get back out and cries and wails until I come to liberate her. Susan reckons she’s now doing her fence-climbing routine just to get the kiss & cuddle I always provide as part of the rescue. Either way I’m going to have to rethink the fencing around Poppy, and that’s not the only headache that Daisy has given me recently.

Daisy was the slowest of all our Beagles to acquire toilet training, and quite recently she’s reverted to peeing in her crate. We’re not sure why this has happened; she’s a sensitive girl and we’ve had a few stressful events lately (tiles off the roof during wet, stormy weather etc), so it could be a response to that. Additionally I’m sure I’ve heard ocasional fireworks being set off in advance of bonfire night, and there’s even been a local band rehearsing some distance a way; one evening I had to bring Daisy in from the deck to stop her howling at a barely audible and not particularly impressive drum solo. Another possible cause for her pee accidents is a UTI, so to rule this out we took Daisy to the vet for a check-up, whereupon we were asked “have you got a urine sample?”. Well no, we didn’t, and I had no idea how difficult it can be obtain such a thing.

Daisy tends not signal her intention to pee in any way I can detect; she just walks along normally and then suddenly drops into a wide squat with one leg partially cocked as though imitating Monkey’s manly peeing style. There’ve been countless missed opportunities as I’ve followed her around on walks and in the garden with a low profile container in  my pocket. It only takes the lightest distraction such as Monkey squatting for a poop, and the moment is lost.

As the vet’s weekend closure loomed still without a sample, I realised I had to step things up. We took Team Beagle for a walk in a woodland close to the vet, and I wasn’t coming out of those woods without a sample of Daisy juice. For nearly the whole walk my eyes were glued to Daisy’s bum, my left hand ready for a spaghetti-western style quick draw that would serve up tupperware instead of hot lead. I must have looked quire odd to anybody we passed, but nothing was going to disturb my concentration on that little furry bum. As we apporached the final section of the walk she squatted – again without any warning – and I sprung into action, but with long grass underneath her and my knee injury hampering my ability to get close to the ground, I found it difficult to position the container. It was like the old gameshow “The Golden Shot”: left a bit, right a bit, right a bit more, but the movement of the container itself spooked her, causing the pee to be cut short. As she came back up I saw that I had in fact collected a little of that liquid gold, and thankfully the vet receptionist figured it was just enough to proceed with testing. I’m fully expecting the results to come back negative, and in the meantime I’ve installed a calming pheromone thingummy by her crate; let’s hope that puts an end to the bed-wetting and saves me from having to collect any further pee samples.