I’ve heard a few discussions on talk shows about the effect of covid lockdowns on dogs. Apparently separation anxiety is a common development, but that doesn’t seem to be an issue for us, whereas jealousy definitely is. Beanie shows the most conspicuous and comical symptoms, and as a result we’re now calling her Little Miss FOMO.

When I go into the garden for a workout I often do my best to entice the pups out with me, but more often than not Biggles is the only one that actually turns up. By the time I’m done, Beanie’s FOMO compells her to check the site of my training session to verify that no biccies were secretly handed out, and typically she’ll also give Biggles a once-over sniffing too. It’s almost like a customs inspection; if she could pull latex gloves onto her front paws and give Biggles a body cavity search I’m sure she would (and to be honest I think Biggles might actually enjoy that – he’s always been a bit too keen on anal thermometers).

What’s going on, and is food involved?

If he’s busy cleaning his fur after a walk and things get overly noisy and slurpy – as can happen – I can guarantee that her head will pop out of her bed to check that he’s not getting something she isn’t. Her most illogical FOMO symptom involves cuddle sessions. Beanie has always hated soppy cuddles, but if she sees Biggles getting hugs and fondles, she hops onto the other side of the sofa and presents herself for the same treatment. It’s only when the cuddles start that she remembers how much she loathes them and demands a blankie covering.

I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea – blankie me NOW and don’t leave my head sticking out!

Convinced that she has a full comprehension of English but just pretends not to understand when it suits her (which is admittedly most of the time), I’ve been having long conversations with her to talk her out of all this FOMO behavior. I remind her that wherever possible we follow the “if one puppy gets, then so does the other” rule, and make her more aware of what a great ally she has in The Bigglet. For example, every time Biggles obtains a sock and sells it to me for a biccie, Beanie gets a biccie too. I guess it’s the equivalent of VAT at 100%, and even though it does reduce the number of socks I’m prepared to purchase from Biggles, he’s totally OK with it. Then there’s the rigmarole that happens when Miss FOMO catches me tickling Biggles’ tummy. I offer to tickle hers, but she refuses, sits right in front of me and begins airing her grievances like some 1970s trade union leader. Biggles, ever the supportive brother, jumps right down beside her and joins in, even though he’s effectively complaining about his own tummy tickle session.

Perhaps one day she’ll realize that all the FOMO stuff is unnecessary, and that we’re always looking out for her interests. Until then, that suspicious little bonce of hers is going to keep popping out of the bed to check she’s not missing out on anything.

Just over a week ago when we were immersed in a DIY & decorating frenzy, Biggles got around 5 minutes unsupervised access to our utility room. This is where we keep our bins, the fridge-freezer, and crucially, several months’ worth of kibble. As I’ve noted in previous posts, my boy has a history of not fully capitalizing on moments of opportunity, but this time he got it (mostly) right:  he ignored the bins and the fridge and focused on the three 12kg bags of Burns Alert sitting in the alcove under the boiler. Being Biggles, he still targeted the only bag that had been shipped in a heavy duty woven plastic sack, rather than going for the other two which were otherwise unprotected, but to his credit he nibbled a hole through both the sack and the bag within and made a fair dent in the contents before his 5 minute free-for-all was up. He would have got longer than 5 minutes, but unfortunately the rhythmic battering of his wagging tail against a radiator caught my attention.

Some dogs might regard a big score like that as the achievement of a lifetime and retire from the world of competitive naughtiness, but not my boy. After a few hours of downtime (absolutely unavoidable as his bloated stomach struggled to process the bumper intake of kibble), he was right back to pushing the envelope. Could he sneak back into the utility room for a second go? How many socks could he nick from the bedroom? And how many sheets of sandpaper and rolls of masking tape could be ruined while left unattended on the kitchen floor? Yep, no resting on laurels for The Bigglet, it’s “Excelsior!” all the way.

When life presents you with an old pipe that’s big enough to take your take your head, what you do?

If you’re living life the Biggles way, you just stick your head straight down it, no questions asked.

Beanie hasn’t been idle this last couple of weeks, either: she’s discovered that our miniature strawberry plants are now bearing fruit, and she’s been picking that fruit at every opportunity.

The strawberries really are small, but they’re meant to be super-sweet and full of flavor. I can’t say whether that last part is true or not, because of course I haven’t got to taste any of them yet. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to change any time soon!

As a free resource for learning new skills, Youtube is fantastic. As a platform that puts lifestyle ideas into your head that can’t possibly work if you live in Scotland and/or have spoiled Beagles, Youtube is the work of the devil. Case in point: the back garden movie night.

Lured by clips of US folks watching films in their gardens on rugged, comfortable outdoor seats by a glowing fire, we invested in a budget projector, screen, and firepit, and ordered lengths of 2″ x 4″ timber from which to make “Adirondack” chairs and footrests. I made the chairs and footrests, bought hotdogs and a pack of marshmallows to toast, and soon we were all set for a night at our own private cinema with a pair of Beagles snoozing peacefully on our laps.

I’d taken great care over the choice of firepit; it had a mesh dome cover and all-round restraining bar to keep intrepid girls like Beanie from getting singed and going to the vet, while reassuring more cautious boys like Biggles that the fire wasn’t about to break free and go after them.

Things were going well until the burning wood in the pit let out a sharp “pop”. Biggles was sitting on Susan’s lap, wrapped up in a blankie for extra security when this unexpected sound spooked him. His head popped up, he froze for a moment, and then made an emergency retreat to the kitchen door. Fear is more contagious than any virus, and soon the Beanster was right up there with him. Biggles issued a somewhat urgent version of his distinctive “knock-knock” woof, while Beanie adopted an extra wide sit.

In case you didn’t get that last bit, let me explain: the width of Beanie’s sit is a key indicator of her mood. A compact sit shows she wants something but is willing to wait patiently, possibly as long as several seconds, before her demands are met. A wide sit – which I often refer to as a “John Wayne Puppy Sit” – indicates that she has a legitimate grievance which should be addressed post haste. If things get bad, a John Wayne sit can be accompanied by woofing to emphasize the urgency of the situation. If things get even worse, the sit gets wider still and we’re into Jean-Claude Van Damme doing the splits territory. Right there, in front of the kitchen door, a full-on JCVD puppy sit was in progress.

“You’d better let them in and put them to bed” Susan advised.

I had to agree. It was a shame though; I’d really wanted the four of us to be out there together, but I knew the pups would be happier in their crates. I tucked them up in their beds, giving them both half a dental chew by way of an apology. Back on the patio it was finally getting dark enough for me to set up the projector, while Susan nipped back into the house to prepare the first round of hotdogs. I’d just started the film and taken the first bite of my hotdog when I heard a somewhat distant howl. Thinking it might be some random other dog in the neighborhood, I ignored it for a moment, but then it was repeated, and I now recognized it as one of Biggles’ urgent “I need a pee!” proclamations. Falling back on years of training with my furry mentors, I speed-swallowed the remainder of my hotdog and went to attend to the new emergency.

As soon as I opened the crates, both Biggles and Beanie bolted through into the kitchen and out into the back garden. “Wow – they’re really desperate!” I thought, and so they were, but not to relieve full bladders; this was all about the hotdogs. Susan only just managed to lift our plates out of reach before the Beagle dish-clearing service got started.

“OK, you can stay out for a bit.” I said, and went back to my seat. We put the plates back on the table and went through the standard three levels of access denial (that would be “No!”, “Seriously, leave it, both of you!” and “Oi! You little buggers!”) before I released that there could be no peace while the plates were out there. I got back off my bum and took the plates into the kitchen. Returning once more to my seat, I was ready to put my feet up and enjoy the film, but Beanie and Biggles had other ideas, because they’d just remembered why they’d gone to their beds in the first place.

“The fire’s scary! We want to go in!!!” they woofed as they took up position outside the kitchen door. I sighed, and got off my arse yet again to go sort them out.

“OK, are you absolutely sure that neither of you wants a pee, because I’ll be annoyed if I put you to bed and then you want to get out again.” They assured me that they were both ready for their crates, but that another round of dental chews was necessary. I obliged, got them safely into their crates, and returned to my seat.

“Fancy some toasted marshmallows?” asked Susan. I really did. I’m in my fifties and I can honestly say that until that night, I’d never tasted a toasted marshmallow.  I was on my second one when there was another round of distant, muffled howling. The little buggers wanted to come out again.

“It’ll just be about the marshmallows, ignore them and they’ll settle down.” said Susan.

I tried to do just that, but the the howling repeated and intensified. “It sounds like Biggles really does need a pee. There’s been a lot of excitement and he always needs a pee when gets excited. I don’t think it’s about the marshmallows” I replied.

As it turned out, it was about the marshmallows. We went through the whole sequence again, and ten minutes later Beanie and Biggles were back in their crates and I was – finally – about to sit back on one of the new garden chairs I’d made and watch what remained of the film.

“Is that rain?” Susan asked.

Of course it was. It had to be. For three days the Met Office had confidently predicted that the chance of precipitation on this particular evening would be less than 10%, which is as good as it gets during summer in western Scotland. And as is often the case, the Met Office had got it wrong. I felt a raindrop on my head, then another, then another. Time to abort the whole thing and get the projector, the screen, the computer speakers and the extension cable all safely back inside before the rain got up to speed. Once I’d done that my thoughts turned to resuming the movie inside the house, but first there was something urgently requesting my attention – an all too familiar howling coming from the bedroom.

“We want to go out! We really do need a pee this time!”

Little buggers. I love ’em to bits. But they’re still little buggers.