The 80’s song “Baggy Trousers” by Madness has been popping into my head quite a bit recently. It’s about the monotony of school life, but it seems equally applicable to life in lockdown: just like the kids in the song, we’ve also been “trying different ways to make a difference to the days.”  Susan now has a host of vegetable plants happily growing in containers both inside and outside the house, and if all goes well we’ll have our own supply of potatoes and salad later in the year. The “if all goes well” bit of course refers to how well we can protect the growing plants from the furry types. There have been a few Beagle-related incidents already, and I’ll get round to detailing them in the next post.

Speaking of Beagles, Beanie’s been using her lockdown time to answer the really big questions in life, such as “is it possible to climb into an empty bag of kibble, and are there any tasty kibble fragments to be found at the bottom of that bag?”

The answer to the first part of that question is clearly “yes”, and judging from the accompanying munching noises, I’d have to say that the second part gets a “yes” too.

Any Beagles wishing to duplicate this experiment to confirm the results for themselves should be aware that it is possible to get stuck in the bag, get into a panic and urgently require the assistance of a humie for extraction.

What’s more, if you’re a Beagle and you’re wondering “what’s it like to steal and rapidly consume hand-made pizza base while the yeast is still rising?” then Beanie has you covered on that one too, but the answer is somewhat nuanced.

In the short term she would say that the experience is overwhelmingly positive; the feel of that full tummy is ample compensation for being slapped about the face by the dough as you struggle to speed-swallow it. It’s only later in the day that the negative consequences become fully apparent. Firstly there’s the problem that the dough that barely fit into your stomach soon swells to approximately twice its initial size, and as a result your Dad compares you to an over-inflated rugby ball with comedy ears, which is both hurtful and inappropriate. Additionally, you may find that the serving for your tea-time meal is drastically reduced. In Beanie’s case, she received the kibble equivalent of a dry Ryvita crispbread with nothing on it, while Biggles got something akin to a full English all-day breakfast and really rubbed it in with exaggerated woofing and munching noises.

As for me, it’s all been about two fitness-related projects; I’ve written a training app which will be ready for release on Android platforms soon, and I’ve turned this..

into this:

I’m really enjoying have access to a full height pullup bar once again – it’s great to do muscle-ups without whacking my head into the ceiling – but even better than that, I’ve discovered that Biggles is simply the best furry training partner on the planet. Any time I go out into the garden for a workout he insists on coming with me and keeps me company for the whole session. I get his full attention when I chat to him about my goals, and in between sets he encourages me to do a form of active recovery that involves ear ruffling.

Only once has he run off with my chalk bag, which shows remarkable restraint for a little Beagle boy, and so I’ve rewarded him by making it possible for him to complete some lockdown projects of his own. Below is his latest work, but he’s also done a sterling job on adding extra ventilation to my socks.

Any time Susan needs to put drainage holes in a pot she’s preparing for her plants, he’s ready, willing and able to help. The holes don’t always end up in the places she wants them, but you can’t fault my little boy’s enthusiasm.

Imagine for a moment that you are a Beagle in the middle of all this coronavirus craziness. Your walks are repetitive and uninspired, you’re not allowed to pick the pockets of random strangers, and you’re just not getting the attention you deserve. What do you do to spice things up? How do you prove to yourself and the world that you’ve still got power and influence? Beanie’s answer to this has always been the same: get sick enough to require medical intervention. A vet-worthy malady ticks all a little girl’s boxes:

• you instantly grab the spotlight from your pesky brother, no matter how many socks he’s just nicked from the bedroom
• you get chauffeur driven to the veterinary practice
• you charm everyone in the waiting room and get lots of attention
• you stand a pretty good chance of having a thermometer pushed up your bottom (and when is that ever a bad thing?)
• after it’s all over and your Mum & Dad are grumbling as they pay the bill, you get a free biccie from the receptionist

The lockdown rules took one of Beanie’s favorite sickness options off the menu – after all it’s hard to find a blockage-creating non-food item to swallow down if all your walks have to be on-lead and closely supervised. Ever the resourceful and expensive pupplet, Beanie managed to rustle up a nail bed infection. It took a little while to develop; first she quietly pranged a nail – perhaps while chasing around the garden with one of our vulnerable, recently potted tomato plants – and then she cultivated it with frequent licking until, a few days later, she was hopping around on three legs looking suitably sorry for herself. The call to the local practice was made, an appointment time was set, and as far as Beanie was concerned the scene was set for some classic vet-on-spoiled-Beagle action! Unfortunately Beanie hadn’t realized that thanks to the coronavirus, this entire vet session was going to be virtual.

When the appointment time arrived I hurried Biggles out of the lounge and visited the URL provided by the vet on our aging little Android tablet. Seconds later our vet-du-jour popped onto the screen and Susan delivered the relevant facts.

“OK, let’s see the patient!” said the vet.

This should have been easy, but it wasn’t, because minutes before the session started Beanie had wrapped herself extra, extra tightly in her favorite blankie. Extraction was non-trivial. Ever been handed a cling-film wrapped sandwich? It was just like that: I had to hunt around for the loose end, and only then could the endless unwinding begin. To her credit the vet stayed awake during all of this and was ready to lead us through a basic remote examination – all that was required first was to tell the tablet to switch to its rear camera. I had no clue how to do it. I can’t tell you how embarrassing that was.  I’ve got a degree in Computer Science, I’ve been a programmer for thirty-odd years and I build my own computers, but when it comes to mucking around with the camera functions on a phone or tablet, I’m hopeless. The only selfie I’ve ever taken was with a high-end DSLR on a tripod. Fortunately the vet was well-versed in tablet operation; she talked me through that, and then she talked me through the first step of the examination: gum color and condition.

I brush my Beaglets’ teeth every day so I felt very confident about this bit, and to make things even easier Beanie still had a really gross mouth malfunction from her blankie-wrapped nap; scarcely any manipulation was need for the first side! Now I had to turn her around and show the other side to the camera. Beanie was not cooperative, and really didn’t want to turn around to face the other side. She only weighs 11kg but she can resist very effectively when she gets suspicious, and having that tablet thing  hovering within inches of her face was definitely making her suspicious. It was a struggle, but I got the job done.

Next up was a check for sore muscles and joints along the affected leg. With each successive vet-guided manipulation, Beanie moved from being merely uncooperative to being downright stubborn. By the time we got to the affected foot, she’d had enough.

“Feel the digits, spread them gently with your fingers and observe how Beanie reacts” instructed the vet.

I’ll tell you how Beanie reacted. She wriggled out of my arms, leaped off the sofa, and despite her sore foot, legged it. I immediately gave chase. Recapture should have been easy; we’d closed the baby gate across the lounge doorway so there was no way out of the room, but it turns out that I can’t do laps of the sofa as fast as a little Beagle. Despite my size and cornering disadvantages I finally managed to grab The Beanster, returning to the sofa with her clamped firmly against my chest. Thanks to Susan’s careful handling of the tablet the vet probably saw every part of this adventure, but being the consummate professional, she said nothing. As I spread the toes on Beanie’s foot, the damaged nail was revealed along with inflammation on the toe below it.

The diagnosis was made, antibiotics and painkillers were prescribed, and credit card numbers were read out. It turns out that during a pandemic, makers of medical products get to charge pretty much whatever they want; Beanie has had a lot of antibiotics over the years, and this was two or three times the normal cost! Beanie of course was not bothered about that – she was all about the biccie, and now it was indeed biccie time. A quick rendition of her special begging / biccie-summoning dance to the receptionist was all that would be needed to get the big payoff! Except there was no receptionist, because we were all still at home. Bugger!

When I set out alone in the car to collect the prescription I think Beanie was still hoping that I’d be bringing back more than medication. I got a very waggy welcome on my return, but this quickly turned to disappointment when all I had to show for my journey was bunch of small torpedo-shaped pills. The grim reality is that when you see the virtual vet, you only get a virtual biccie, and you can’t chew virtual biccies.

Her Royal Highness is now back on top form and another young and tender tomato plant has been ripped out of its pot to be taken on a mad chase round the garden. Still, I’ll always take a naughty but healthy Beanie over a sick one.

Biggles without a sock

Biggles with a sock. Snoring is noticeably louder when the sock is present.

I’ve taken the pups to our local beach three times a week, most weeks, for the last ten years. That’s around 7500 – 8000 beach miles we’ve done together! A lot of those runs involved some offlead fun, indeed some of them featured AWOL incidents that resulted in much more offlead fun than I ever intended, but together they’ve made a huge contribution to the quality of life that Beanie and Biggles have enjoyed. The lockdown rules have now put a stop to that, and runs with me on local roads have met with declining enthusiasm. By way of compensation, a sustained improvement in the weather has put garden play sessions back on the menu. I’m happy to report that these *have* met with furry approval, especially when edibles have been involved.

Wait a minute! Is his cow ear bigger than mine?!!

Well you know what they say: chew now, beat your brother up later!

More fun could be on the way when Susan’s horticultural experiments are moved from their little indoor pots into the back garden, where they’ll suddenly be within reach of the Beaglets. If all goes well we should have carrots, lettuce, radishes and potatoes later this year.

To my untrained eyes it seems that most vegetable things looks like cress when they’re starting to grow, in much the same way that all new babies look like Winston Churchill.

This apparently is going to be a courgette when it grows up. If I hadn’t been told, there’s no way I’d have guessed.

One thing I do know for sure is that there’ll be a smacked Beagle bottom if the owner of said bottom chooses to do a bit of unsanctioned digging or nibbling.

Would that innocent little boy rip up our crop of veg? Socks are the natural prey of The Bigglet, but forbidden items have a powerful allure of their own.