In those early weeks after getting Poppy I remember taking her for a walk and thinking “wow, this really shows just how manageable Beanie and Biggles have become”. At some point in their lives we just started trusting them to be left alone in the house while we worked in the garden or had a conversation with a neighbor; on walks I could just say “hold on a minute” while I re-tied my laces or fiddled about with my phone and they’d just stand there quietly without pulling, and if I wanted a posed photo of them I could just tell them to “wait” and (briefly) release their leads without them running off. We’d come to take all of these little things for granted, but with Poppy and subsequently Monkey, all bets were off. Puppies were hard work while our golden-oldie A-Team was – by comparison – a predictable well-oiled machine.

All that has changed.

The turning point came just after Beanie had a run of bad days. She was lethargic, on and off her food, and getting quite wobbly on her feet. She’d been doing all the physio exercises we’d been given, but Beanie was was still deteriorating. Thanks to the heat from the new wood burning stove we’d installed in the living room, she was also looking very disheveled, with big tuffs of winter fur coat coming out all over the house. Things had gotten so bad I’d actually said to Susan “I think this could be Beanie’s last year”, and she’d confessed to having the same thoughts. Then we realized that since getting Monkey, Beanie hadn’t been getting up onto our laps and requesting regular back massages. Over the next couple of days, Susan began giving Beanie thorough back and shoulder massages each day whether the Beanster wanted it or not, and since the massage sessions made Biggles a bit jealous and woofy, he got them too.

By the the third day, the changes in the A-Team were dramatic. Beanie abruptly rediscovered her passion for humping Susan’s legs and began demanding tug play sessions; her appetite even for lowly kibble returned fully and consistently, and no unguarded cup was safe from an exploratory snout insertion. It felt like we had the naughty Beanie from five years ago back in our house, and Biggles? Well he got a full dose of renewed vigor too. Any sock that wasn’t nailed to the floor was his; he pawed open cupboards in search of sandpaper and masking tape to shred, and worst of all, he became a master bread thief.

Recently we got a little bread-maker machine to make a fresh loaf whenever we need it and without the big preparation hassle or the cost of putting the oven on. The smell of baking bread is wonderful and apparently the taste is great too, but I wouldn’t really know because Biggles beats me to it every time. It’s as though every loaf that comes out of that little machine is cursed, destined to end up in Biggles’ black hole of a gut, or at the very least have a Beagle mouth-sized chunk torn from it. In truth it’s always my fault; I open the kitchen baby gate, get distracted by something for a moment, he sneaks in and the next thing I hear is the commotion of a snatch and grab mission. It doesn’t really matter where on the worktops the bread happens to be sitting – his pogo-stick jumping ability is back at full strength and he can reach any target that’s below our head height. I hit my limit the other day and shouted at him, but any residual anger was swept away when he later had a bout of vomiting and spent several hours in the humie bed with his head on my pillow.

The Bigglet, convalescing on my pillow after a severe bread overdose.

In the midst of all this Poppy and Monkey are still doing their best to be inducted into the Naughty Hall of Fame. Monkey made a determined effort to pull down my pants yesterday while I was talking to a neighbor through the garden fence. This morning on their walk I looked round when the leads went tight and saw a writhing mass of Beagle body parts. Apparently they’d decided that now was a good time for a wrestling match, and until my eyes and brain caught up with the action I couldn’t tell which bits belonged to which Beaglet; one furry bonce was emerging from beneath someone’s tail, while another one was growing out of an armpit, and there seemed to be far too many ears and feet for only two puppies. When silliness like that happens on walks my unthinking response is to say “Oi!” to get their attention. Just for fun I counted the number of times I had to say “Oi!” until we got back home, and it turned out that was a nine-Oi walk. I then went out with the rejuvenated A-Team and we had a sixteen-Oi walk. That’s right: the youngsters were outclassed by their elders, and it’s worth noting that some of those winning “Oi!” points were awarded for high-difficulty maneuvers like pooping through the gaps in a fence into someone else’s garden and sticking one’s nose into the shopping bag of a passer-by.

Poppy and Monkey consoling each other after being out-naughtied

As I sat recovering from the walks I took pleasure at the thought that Beanie & Biggles have rediscovered their inner puppies, and that those inner puppies are still naughtier than our actual puppies. Then I had a follow-up thought: if you say “Oi!” to a Beagle often enough, will they starting thinking that’s their name?

As usual, here are a few more shots of the smaller Ois:

Size-wise Monkey has now overtaken his older sister Poppy, and looking at them playing it’s sometimes easy to forget that he’s still just a four month old pup who still has a lot of essential skills to acquire. For example it’s only in the last week that he’s managed to jump onto our sofas, and even now he can only do it if he’s focused on play; if he stops to think about it he’s overwhelmed and either aborts the attempt or face-plants on the seat cushion before sliding back to the floor. He can climb any flight of steps as well as his sister, but turn him around and ask him to come back down and his confidence can suddenly crumble. His face is so expressive you can see the emotional roller-coaster he’s on as he as tackles something new: “Yeah I can do that! Oh hang on, actually it looks a bit scary. Oh crap I’m going to die! No, no, I’m OK, I’m OK. Oh yeah that was easy – I was never scared!”

We rode the roller-coaster together recently when I took him for his first trip up Loudoun Hill with Poppy. It’s only a small hill that normally takes about 10 minutes from base to summit, but the great Monkey expedition easily clocked up 20 minutes on the ascent, and even longer on the way down. I very much enjoyed cupping my hand under his little furry bum to give him a boost when needed, but I was toiling on the way down, trying to keep a wriggling Monkey tucked under one arm while holding onto Poppy’s lead with the other.

By contrast my second trip up the hill with the A-team was a relaxing stroll, and that’s despite Beanie and Biggles working hard to take their lead tangling skills to the next level.

The youngsters hang out in the van…

while the A-Team show who are the real kings of hill climbing

Despite his tender age Monkey has demonstrated a remarkable talent for Poo Magic. This highly specialized subset of the performing arts involves the assisted removal of an unfeasibly long foreign body from one’s bum hole. Beanie is of course the world record holder with her 12 inch plastic shopping bag fragment, but earlier this week Monkey gave a very creditable roadside performance with an 8 inch object. Until I got my hand on the protruding end of it and started pulling I figured it was just a regular klingon, but that thing just kept on coming. I’ll never know for sure what it was – it was too coated in the brown stuff for me to see – but as Monkey likes nothing better than to sneak poo bags out of my pockets when he’s sat on my lap, that’s got to be my best guess.

This was such an impressive performance for a novice anal magician that it may have put Beanie’s nose out of joint, because she’s been off her main meals intermittently for a week or so. 

For many Beagle owners reluctance to eat at mealtimes is a sure sign of a health problem, but throughout her life Beanie has used it as an attention-grabbing tool. I felt certain that this time was no different, based mainly on the fact that I’d watched her turn her nose up at her bowl full of kibble, but spend ages trying to get a piece of the exact same kibble that escaped from Biggles’ bowl and rolled under the hall table. I was all set to use the time-honored “eat it now or I’ll take the bowl away” technique to get her eating again, but then Susan started Googling. Maybe Beanie really could be ill this time? Maybe she could be losing her sense of smell and finding kibble insufficiently appetizing? Yep, you guessed it: we got a vet appointment just to play it safe, and of course she passed it with flying colors. She may be 14 years old, but she still knows how to get us worried.

As for Biggles, well he’s having the time of his life, having finally solved a mystery that’s been troubling him for the last 13 years. You see whenever I go for a shower I lay out my fresh clothes, and when the water starts flowing and I’m safely tucked away in the cubicle, Biggles sneaks in and tries to nick my socks. He checks my top, my boxers, my pants, but until now he’s never found my fresh socks. That’s because I hide them by tucking them into the door handle on the inside of the bathroom door. Last Tuesday however, right after Poppy’s latest attempt to emulate the Andrew Puppy and run off with the loo roll, he came into the bathroom for a nose around, and discovered my socks. He’s a happy boy, and now I’m the one trying to find the missing socks.

As usual, here are a few more recent shots:

Poppy celebrated the end of her 10 day post-op fast from roughhousing by getting right back into it; no warm up, no bum sniffing preliminaries, just straight to straddling Monkey the wrong way round and pulling his tail. If she was shocked by how much bigger and stronger he’s become over those ten days, she didn’t show it, but the play was noticeably more balanced.

During Poppy’s convalescence her brother Monkey didn’t just get bigger and stronger, he also got better at controlling his pee factory, but that progress was won at the cost of many washing machine cycles. He peed on the floor, he peed on his toys, he peed in his crate and on one trip to the vet for a checkup for Poppy, he peed on Susan’s lap (to their shame, neither Beanie nor Biggles ever managed that one). It was very frustrating; he’d have a few days where his pee habit would seem to be improving, and then there’d be an absolute whiz-fest. Eventually we discovered why this was happening:

1. Monkey has not one, not two, but three bladders. I’m confident of this because I’ve seen him create two large puddles on the patio and deck in quick succession, yet still manage to wet the hall carpet just five minutes later.  All three bladders must be purged to avoid an accident.
2. Sending Monkey out into the garden at some crazy early hour in the morning with the instruction “go do your business” is no guarantee that the business in question will actually be done. The responsible humie must don clothing, shoes and a jacket and accompany Monkey outside with a torch to obtain VPC (Visual Pee Confirmation) in triplicate. Failing to do so leaves Monkey at risk of being distracted from his primary mission. There could be a poo to snack on, a plant that urgently need pruning, or even better a big pool of rain water to guzzle down to refill those extra bladders of his.
3. Doing the pat-down test on the bed of the crate is not a reliable method of detecting prior in-crate pee accidents. A resourceful Beagle boy such as Monkey is entirely capable of peeling up his bedding to reveal the plastic tray beneath, peeing onto that tray, then dropping the bedding back in place to hide the evidence.

Monkey caught me out with #3 for a good couple of nights before I solved the riddle of how his bed could feel dry, yet his crate (and the little boy it contained) could smell vaguely of pee.  We concluded that the whiz-fests were happening because once Monkey had a whiff of pee on his person – a dab of “eau de toilet” if you will – everywhere he went would smell of pee, and therefore everywhere was a legitimate pee location. It was kind of like that old song “Wherever I lay my hat, that’s my home”, except with puddles instead of a hat. Anyway once we figured out how things were going so wrong, we were able to make genuine progress. The little pee-monster still has three bladders of course, and there’s no getting round that.

As a special treat for Poppy after such a restricted 10 day lock down, we took her and the A-Team for a walk up Loudoun Hill. She coped with the short climb very easily, but seemed a little unsure of the etiquette for the ritual treat handout at the top.

The Beagle Book of Law contains a number of rules governing the delivery of treats at the top of a hill, but they all have a single common thread which is quite easy to memorize, and it’s this: Beanie gets the treats first. Every time. Or else.

Get down Biggles, I get first dibs!

Poppy also has a lot to learn about gratuitous woofing, but at least she has two very experienced coaches.

And of course Beanie is also qualified to teach the art of getting stuck in odd places

One essential Beagle skill that both Poppy and Monkey have already acquired is that of poo snacking. Currently they’ve yet to develop a taste for the droppings of random local dogs, instead preferring the high quality, home-grown stink bombs laid by Beanie and Biggles. It’s disturbingly common to see them pacing around members of the A-Team when they go out for their morning constitutional, pouncing on the fresh deposits as soon as they become available. When nature calls during a walk it’s a game of who’s quickest on the draw: can I get a poo bag on my hand and scoop before an eager puppy mouth beats me to it? If only I had the reflexes of a young Clint Eastwood. On the other hand, at least it’s taking longer to wear down my supply of bags. If you’re disgusted by any of that, take my advice: don’t get a Beagle!

To close this post, a few more shots: