We’re well into 2021 and so far it’s even worse than 2020, which is no small accomplishment, and nothing to celebrate.

Dogs are supposed to love routine, so the endless repeating pattern of life in lockdown should be great for our two, and in some ways it is; lots of snuggly lie-ins in the big bed, humie servants constantly available to cater to every whim, and the certainty that tomorrow will be just the same. The downside is that dogs are also really good at sensing the moods of their humies, and there’s no doubt that Beanie and Biggles are picking up on the escalating tension, frustration and worry that this ongoing situation is creating.

Predictably Beanie has been the most affected. She’s become Velcro Beagle, constantly following us round the house and needing frequent reassurance that everything is OK, but even happy-go-lucky Biggles is aware that something is going on. He’s been hoarding extra socks to use as tender if and when the apocalypse strikes, and is incapable of sleeping unless his big white bum is pressed tightly against one of us.

The other night I went into our “posh” lounge alone to chill out in front of an old, familiar movie – David Lynch’s Dune – but it wasn’t long before I heard scratches at the door. I ended up sitting right in the middle of the sofa – on the gap between the seat cushions –  with a fully expanded Beaglet on either side. Satisfied that I couldn’t sneak away again without them feeling it, Beanie and Biggles both relaxed and nodded off. When Kyle Maclachlan proclaimed “The sleeper has awakened!!” I could barely hear him over the stereo snoring.

Movie intermission, Beagle-style. And don’t think you can go wandering off and leave us alone in here Dad!

I’m very aware that we’ve got it way easier than so many others. While some people aren’t even allowed out of their houses to exercise their dogs, we’re able to go for walks in our beautiful local countryside.

But a guilded cage is still a cage, and outside that cage the world is being turned on its head. Keep collecting those socks Biggles! We may need them before all this is done!

It’s been a funny old Christmas and New Year, and not just because of the virus and the continuing lockdown, but also because we’ve spent most of the festive season redecorating our bathroom and bedroom. Working on the bathroom wasn’t much of a disruption to regular life – other than the ever present danger of Beagles gaining access and turning into furry paint-rollers – but the bedroom re-do meant that both humans and Beagles had to move their beds into our big lounge. This was problematic because the Beagle bedtime routine has become so very well ingrained: first you get your teeth brushed, then you get sent out for “final wees”, then a humie breaks a big dental chew in half, shouts “Crates!” and you sprint hell-for-leather into the bedroom, dive into your crate and get a chew.

Everything went well on the first night of our relocated sleeping arrangements until we got to the “Crates!” bit. I was standing just inside the lounge, pointing clearly at the two blankie-covered crates by the head of our inflatable camping bed when I made the announcement, but still Beanie and Biggles raced each other to the bedroom door. I’d closed the bedroom, so I figured all I had to do was stay put, wait for the frantic door scratching and barging to subside, then call them to me using the well worn instruction “Get in here you daft buggers!”

I waited, and waited some more, but no furry people appeared. Come to think of it I couldn’t hear any activity at all, so I had to go and investigate. I found the bedroom open (not the first time Biggles’ frenzied boinging has opened doors), with two very anxious and confused Beagles sitting on the bit of carpet that was formerly home to their beds. They saw me, which didn’t really affect anything, but then they saw the dental chews in my hand, and suddenly I had their attention. The walk back to the lounge was a bit stumbly because excited Beagles were bumping into each other, into my legs and into the walls, and generally getting underfoot, but when we got there the penny dropped – their crates were in here! They both charged straight into the nearest crate, which happened to belong to Beanie.

“No, Biggles, you need to go into your own crate!”

Biggles popped out briefly, realized that he wasn’t in a crate (which is a legal prerequisite for the bedtime chew), panicked and ran right back in, whereupon Beanie scrambled out and into Biggles’ crate.

“No that’s wrong, you need to swap!”

This time they both crammed into Biggles’ crate.

“Try again!”

Both back in Beanie’s crate. I’ll cut this short by saying that it took a substantial number of iterations before they were both in their own beds, and it was with some relief that I locked the crate doors and handed out the chews. Things weren’t any better the next night, but on night three they started to get the hang of it, just before we all moved right back into the bedroom, naturally.

In between all the decorating and bed confusion we did manage to get in a few early walks to take advantage of the clear, frosty mornings we’ve been having:

And of course at some point it stopped being 2020 and became 2021, though nobody in our house really noticed exactly when that happened. Will 2021 end up being a better year than it’s predecessor? I do hope so, because the bar has been set pretty low.

We spend a small yet significant part of each day herding Beanie & Biggles out of our utility room, because that’s where all the kibble and treats are stored and they both know it. It’s common for opportunist Beaglets to make an unsanctioned excursion into that room whenever they’ve been let in from the garden, and once a Beagle is in that room, it’s difficult to get them out; it’s a cramped little space and the clothes airer usually impedes a direct scoop and eject maneuver. All that said, this morning we intentionally summoned the Beaglets in there for an emergency clean-up operation.

Stressed-out and short on sleep after our wonderful government’s latest covid roller-coaster ride, I was having one of those mornings where I’m particularly accident prone, or as I choose to view it, “inanimate objects are out to get me”. I needed access to a cupboard, so I shoved the dirty laundry bag out of the way. This in turn knocked over the large and recently filled kibble container, spilling a substantial amount of Chicken and Rice “Burns Alert” all over the floor, not to mention under the fridge and washing machine. I quickly recited the first page of the book of 4-letter expletives, whereupon Susan joined me to help scoop up the spilled kibble. After scarcely a minute of effort we both ran out of patience and decided to call in the professional cleanup crew.

Biggles was the first to arrive. If I were to liken him to a vacuum cleaner attachment, he’d be the big, broad floor sweeping tool. He’s great at picking up a big pile of debris in the middle of the floor, but he’s not so good at cleaning right into the corners and doesn’t cope too well with things that have rolled under heavy objects. Just as he was finishing up the bits that he could handle well, his little wiggly-bottomed colleague appeared.

To continue the vacuum cleaner metaphor, I’d say Beanie is most definitely the crevice tool, sucking up all the little stray bits that the big sweeper misses. She got straight to work and after less than 60 seconds of diligent sniffing and nibbling I was ready to thank her for a job well done. She however was not ready to call time on the cleanup operation; her nose was insisting that some kibble was still hiding under the washing machine. Her nose is never wrong. Not ever.

Reluctantly I grabbed a long handled spatula, got down on the floor and began digging about in the dark recesses under the washer. I flicked out some kibble and Beanie quickly vacuumed it up, but still her nose would not sign off on the job. The spatula wasn’t connecting with anything now, so I prised off an adjoining kickboard, revealing one and one half nuggets of Burns’ best. Now, finally, Beanie was prepared to declare the operation complete, but of course I still had to swear and curse my way though reattachment of the kickboard. It was a bit like the bad old days when I’d take the car into Kwik-fit for a specific fix, then spend the next day sorting out the new problems the “professionals” had generated. Still, if Beanie’s nose couldn’t detect any remaining kibble then neither would that of a passing rodent, so calling in the furry professionals had been worthwhile even if not particularly labor-saving.

We’re now set for the weirdest Christmas we’ve yet experienced, and I’m not the least bit confident things will be any better this time next year. What’s that supposedly Chinese curse? “May you live in interesting times” ? Yep, things certainly are”interesting”, and not for the first time I find myself wishing I was Beagle.

Eat, poop, possibly eat poop, have fun and when you’re pooped yourself, slip into a deep untroubled sleep. They’re lucky little pups to have such stable, happy lives, and we’re just as lucky to have them through all of this.