At least once a week at our local gym a stressed voice interrupts the piped music to announce “Code red at the pool!”. This phrase indicates a life-threatening emergency, and given the number of such announcements you’d be tempted to conclude that the swimming pool is a very dangerous place indeed and best avoided; a bit like London, or Paisley on a Saturday night, but more consistently wet. Fortunately most of these “emergencies” turn out to be false alarms, but earlier this week we had a Code Red of our own, and I can tell there was nothing false about it.

Like most Beagle boys, Biggles has only a limited vocabulary, but subtle variations in delivery allow him to impart many different meanings to a even single”Woof!”. The volume, intonation and duration of the woof that woke Susan and myself early one morning conveyed a sense of urgency that needed no translation. It was a Code Red woof for sure. If we’d been in an episode of Star Trek Next Generation instead of in our bedroom, then Biggles would have been playing the role of Geordi La Forge, warning Captain Picard that a warp core breach was imminent.

Just like the staff at the gym we sprang into action; while Susan went to free Biggles from his crate, I stumbled over a minefield of randomly discarded socks, squeaky stuffing-free foxes and other toys  to deactivate the alarm and open all the barriers that stood between Biggles and the outside loo. As my boy followed me into the kitchen he still managed a brief sniff at the foil container from the previous night’s lasagne ( a true Beagle!), then ran straight out into the garden to deal with his urgent business. When he returned a few minutes later he was visibly relieved, and thanks to the urgency in that code red announcement the bed in his crate was still dry and free of any unwanted bottom sausages.  Now that he’d been let out of his crate he didn’t want to get back in and made his case for bringing forward the daily Big Bed snuggle time with us humies. It’s always dangerous to give into such requests because it sets a precedent, but of course we did, and when you let one Beagle do it, you kind of have to let the other one do it too. Our sleep was further disrupted that morning by loud snoring from under the covers and spiky paws trying to claim more space than should be required by a little furry person.

Speaking of snuggle time and little furry people, we’ve now moved our cheap eBay Reebok Step knock-off to the side of the bed typically used by The Beanster. Since we put a thick memory foam topper on our mattress our little girl has occasionally been having difficulty jumping onto the bed when she’s just got out of her crate. If we leave the bedroom door open at any point later in the day, Beanie can and will jump into the bed effortlessly, but some mornings now she can be a bit hesitant, and the Step should help. It’s the first concrete sign that at 12 Beanie is not quite the spring chicken she once was, but I’m continuing with all the exercises recommended by the doggie physio to keep her and Biggles in the best possible shape for as long as possible – including wading sessions in the sea (even though they’re not necessarily everyone’s idea of fun at this time of year!)

Most Beagle owners (and vets) live by the rule that when a hound loses interest in food there’s something wrong physically, probably something serious. Our experience with Beanie and Biggles largely contradicts that, as most appetite loss that we’ve seen has been the result of some very screwed up Beagle thinkage. Nevertheless when Biggles failed to announce breakfast time to the whole world and didn’t dive head first into his bowl one morning, my thoughts inevitably turned to possible physical causes. Top of the list was of course the dreaded blockage; both of our pups have ample opportunity to eat something they shouldn’t when offlead, and even on-lead they’re past masters at grabbing things and speed-swallowing it before we can intervene. Eat the wrong thing and an unlucky Beagle can be on a one-way trip to Blockageville.

I’ve lost count of the number of times a vet has asked me “has Beanie/Biggles pooed recently, and was it normal?” and in Beanie’s case I often have to think hard before I can answer with any confidence. Such is not the case with his Biggleship, because he goes to great lengths to make each of his poos as memorable as possible. When on lead he strongly prefers to dump in the middle of the road when a car is coming, or on the clean paved drive of someone’s house, or  to squeeze a bottom sausage or two through the gaps in someone’s fence; if he can do this while he’s got an audience, so much the better. So, when I asked myself about the circumstances of his most recent deposit, the answer came easily: that very morning he’d reversed his bum up to a tree stump in full view of our local community center’s security cameras and dropped three firm foul-smelling logs right on top of it.

This made me less worried about a blockage, but still, why wasn’t he face deep in his bowl the instant I lowered it to the floor? I’m in the habit of talking to my pups all the time so without thinking I asked him directly “Don’t you want this Biggles? What’s wrong little boy?”. He wagged a little, looked at his bowl, looked at me, then backed away kind of nervously. I picked his bowl back up and held it under his mouth, but again he backed away, so then I grabbed a few pieces of kibble with my other hand and offered them to him. He thought about it for a second, then took them, and shortly after that I had him eating from his bowl, but only while I held it up for him. I watched him for the rest of the morning, and though he’d appeared fine earlier on his walk,post-breakfast he now seemed to be a shadow of his normal self. Instead of getting himself a prime snoozing spot on the sofa facing the window, he quietly settled down in the bed by my desk. There was no ten minute high-intensity bed making session and no attempt to nick things off my desk; he just curled up in a little ball and sighed softly. Susan often jokes that our boy changes size according to his mood, and right at that moment he was definitely “Littles” and not Biggles at all. I was strongly reminded of the second Austin Powers movie as I watched him; this was a boy who had lost his mojo.

I had hopes that after the tea-time walk his appetite would be fully restored, but again the only way I could get him to eat was to hold his bowl for him and get him started with a few hand-fed pieces of kibble. After watching this, Susan thought that maybe he’d strained his neck somehow and needed the bowl to be off the ground before he could eat from it. We tested this theory by tossing a munchy stick – one of his favorite regular treats – onto the floor, and in a flash he was on it, and it was down the hatch. There was no hint of any physical impediment, apparently his appetite for treats was intact, and he was still eating, drinking and pooing, so whatever was behind this, it didn’t seem worthy of a costly vet journey just yet.

Things were no better the following morning, but as I delivered the bowls to the normal feeding spots in the hall, Susan caught Biggles looking anxiously across to Beanie. He looked at Beanie, he looked at his bowl, he looked at Beanie again, and Susan was sure she could see a mental conflict going on between his big floppy ears. If he’d started woofing slow and low with smoke coming out of his ears, it would have been a perfect match for one of those Star Trek episodes where Kirk traps a computer in logical paradox.

“I think Beanie’s been doing ju-ju on Biggles. She’s got him thinking he can’t have his food” Susan said, and when she followed it with “Take it! Go on, take it! TAKE IT! TAKE IT!” addressed directly to Biggles, that’s exactly what he did. He stuck his head in his bowl and though he’d started several mouthfuls behind Beanie, he still finished ahead of her. So it was true; Beanie had used her mystical powers to convince him that he wasn’t allowed to have his two main meals each day, and it had taken a repeated, unequivocal command from a trusted humie to break the spell. Now that it was broken, Biggles immediately regained his mojo; he was back to being the official Town Crier at mealtimes and setting new speed-swallowing records, and that evening the toy box was raided many times, with much squeaking heard from the end of the corridor by our bedroom.

There’s no doubt that Biggles worships Beanie, and I’m equally certain she loves him, but every now then she does like to make his life hell. If you’re thinking that maybe there’s a parallel for this in human male-female relationships, well just keep that thought to yourself; after all, you don’t want to get into trouble and be told that you can’t have your dinner ;)