Like Beanie & Biggles themselves I really appreciate a treat that lasts a good while; sadly many treats are big on promises, but gone in seconds. I once bought a pack of paddywhack strips that were so tough I had to use power-tools to cut them up into snack-sized portions, only to watch incredulously as my pups crunched and munched through the first serving in under a minute. Despite all the hype, Pedigree Jumbones were a huge disappointment, and the so-called “Everlasting treat ball” sold at our local pet stores that “provides hours of chewing fun”? Well it doesn’t. Not even close. The one treat I can count on to last more than few chomps is cow ears, but after recent events I’m thinking they might just last too long.

One afternoon I was trying hard to get some work finished quickly, but Team Chaos had different ideas. Biggles was going though one of his “I’m going to get something” phases – raiding the cupboards outside our bedroom – while Beanie was rummaging through the toy box and trying to convince me that it was time for a play session. I find it really, really hard to turn Beanie down when she brings a toy to me, but this time I just had to get on with work. I figured a serving of cow ears would buy me the time I needed, so I found the biggest, thickest and most disgusting pair of cow ears that were left in the bulk-buy box and dished them out. It worked beautifully; after 30 seconds of hurried trotting as each recipient found the “right” place to consume their prize, I was rewarded with peace and blissful chewing noises.

I finished my work just as Biggles finished his chewathon, drained the water bowl and requested an urgent visit to the outside loo. I marched him through the kitchen to the patio door, let him out, and then waited for the sound of Beanie pitter-pattering through the hall, because if Biggles wants to go out, it’s a fair bet his sister won’t be far behind. This time however, all I heard was more chewing. I poked my head out round kitchen doorway and there she was, halfway up the corridor happily munching away on what looked like a substantial chunk of remaining cow ear.

Five minutes later Biggles was asking to come in, and Beanie was still chomping. A further ten minutes later Susan was ready to take them both for their teatime walk, but Beanie was still chewing.. and chewing. I went to check on her, and found her demeanor had changed. She’d consumed most of the ear, but there was the knotty, super-hard base of it still clutched between her paws, and she was looking fatigued but determined, like a marathon runner fighting through to the finish line. Susan was impatient to get the walk done so I swapped the last of the ear for a small biscuit, and though Beanie looked a little relieved to be giving her jaws a rest, I could tell she was anxious to get her treat back.

On their return from the walk I figured the best way to do right by them both was to serve the remaining nugget of ear along with Beanie’s evening meal, and slip a regular chew into Biggles bowl too, just so he wouldn’t feel left out. Unfortunately I had still greatly underestimated the chewing time left in that Adamantium-like knot of cow ear, and as Beanie got to work again, Biggles was looking very confused. His chew had gone down so fast he hadn’t even noticed it, but he had noticed Beanie’s ear. We’ve always obeyed the “if one Beagle gets, so does the other” rule, so he knew that there must be an equivalent treat for him somewhere. He began wagging his tail and hunting around the hall for the surprise that he’d somehow missed, and every few steps he looked back at me to see if I was giving him clues about where it might be, because any time he loses a bit of food under furniture I’m always there to help him get it.

He looked so hopeful and trusting that I couldn’t let him down, so I went back into the kitchen and emerged with a stick of paddywhack. This satisfied Biggles, but now Beanie – who was still tackling her ear – was feeling cheated out of a stick of paddywhack. The evening came very close to disappearing in round after round of compensatory treat servings. Yes, there is such a thing as a treat that lasts too long.

When Susan created Beanie’s special cave-like living room bed – known in these parts as “The Abode” – it made Beanie very happy, and it made me happy too; it dramatically reduced the number of “cover me with a blankie!” demands I had to handle when I was concentrating on work. I still had to deal with lots of seemingly urgent outside loo requests that were really about getting access to the kitchen, and sometimes the blankie requests kept coming because Biggles had parked his big white bottom on The Abode, but still, most days that bed made my life a bit easier and made Beanie a bit snugglier. Unfortunately this last week The Abode was rendered temporarily unavailable due to a messy barfing incident, and we were thrown right back into blankiesville.

Honestly this couldn’t have come at a worst time. I was snowed under with work, and it was extra cold and windy outside; absolutely the conditions in which a small Beagle girl (and boy, for that matter) wants to be covered by a blankie. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the blankie requests had come at say, hourly intervals, but they were much, much more frequent than that. If I didn’t place the blankie just right, there would be a loss of containment during the “let’s go round and round” dance that precedes settling down, and another intervention would be required almost immediately. If the postman or a delivery guy went anywhere close to the house, a long orange blankie slug trail would be left on the way to the window or door, and I’d be up and out of my chair to fix things again. If either me or Susan got up to make a coffee, the possibility of kitchen access would lead to another shedding and subsequent re-application of the blankie, as would trips to the water bowl, trips to the loo, mention of a food trigger word (trust me there are a lot of them!), and of course visits to the toy box because someone decided that a mid-afternoon squeak would be a good idea.

Look Dad, it’s not our fault that you said something that sounded like “chew”

Biggles’ blankie requests involved raising a front paw and looking pathetic, but if I was late in responding he’d just curl up and snuggle down anyway. Beanie however was relentless and impossible to ignore. She signaled her needs with a noise like slightly muffled fart, repeated at random intervals between five and twenty seconds; it was the Beagle re-imagining of Chinese water torture. Pretty soon my exasperation at the frequency of the requests became apparent even to Beanie, and being such a smart and empathetic little girl, she realized that she had to give me a break from the “fart-gone-wrong” signal. So instead, I got this:

and this:

and in particularly desperate cases, this:

No noise, no raised paw, just a silent unbroken stare. Even from across the room, this was way more distracting than any vocal request. I tried to fight it, looking her right in the eyes and saying “No Beanie, you don’t need a blankie!” but she just stared right back at me. “Seriously, I need to concentrate. Go see your Mum and get her to do it.” Still there was that unbroken stare in the corner of my vision, commanding my attention. When I finally challenged her with “No Beanie, I AM going to win this one!” she knew I was close to caving in, and held on that bit longer.

Days later, I’m now happy to report that The Abode is back in action (even though it took a double scoop of Napisan to get it properly clean), so I’m no longer getting the stare treatment from Beanie. As for Biggles, well it seems he’s now having to deal with his own blankie requests from his best pal, Monkey.

Lots of different numbers get thrown around when discussing the number of repetitions needed for a dog to learn a new behavior; some suggest an average of 30-60 reps, while others say it can take around 10,000 to achieve perfection. Based on recent experience I’d suggest that if Beagles are involved and the reward is tasty enough, then 1-2 repetitions will be quite sufficient.

Over the Christmas period I made the terrible mistake of preparing Beanie & Biggles’s dinner while Susan was out walking them. They came through the front door to find their food waiting for them in their bowls, sitting on the floor in their usual serving positions. Confused and elated at the same time, they stuck their heads in the same bowl. Rapid human intervention was required to make sure that they both got a proper serving, mainly because Beanie can eat at twice the speed of Biggles, having long since dispensed with the slow and unnecessary chewing process.

On their next walk I could sense growing anticipation and excitement as we returned home, but it was all for naught; their bowls weren’t waiting for them when they tore through the front door. There was brief disappointment, after which everything returned to normal. Then, maybe a week later, the “instant dinner” scenario happened again, and a switch was well and truly flipped in Beanie & Biggles’ heads.  That last 100 yards to our house is now an excited tugfest, especially when Susan is holding the leads.

It may be the fact that the instant dinners happened inconsistently and unpredictably that locked in this new behavior (trainers refer to this as the Gambling Effect) but regardless, two reps is all it took to hardwire it.

Just as quickly as we taught our two furries to pull like mad on on the way home, I believe I’ve relieved Beanie of her longstanding roadside assistance habit. The Beanster has always been very particular about her feet; she doesn’t like twigs or grit getting between her toes, and when that happens she stops dead, holds up a paw and waits for me to fix things. Usually the irritant is so small I can’t see it, so I fall back on the “magic rub” treatment. Maybe that shifts the offending particle, or maybe it’s all just placebo, but normally that satisfies her majesty and we’re free to continue on our walk.

About a week ago however we had a really, really bad case of “paw’s not right Dad”. In fairness it was very frosty and the gritter lorries had been out, spraying not just the roads but the pavements too; I can imagine that if you’ve already got ice between your toes the sudden introduction of salt could lead to an unpleasantly nippy sensation. Regardless, a paw was raised, and seeing no obvious tootsie contaminants I administered the magic rub. The paw did not go back down. I repeated the magic rub, really working my gloves into the gaps between her toes, but still the paw remained in the raised position.

“Whatever it is, it’ll get better if you walk on the grass for bit. Come on Beanie, let’s get moving!” I said encouragingly.

Ever the stoic Beagle she tried a step, but then lifted the paw again and began hopping to keep up with me and Biggles. I stopped and saw that her raised leg was trembling as though in pain.  This was a bad one, and desperate times call for desperate measures. I picked her up, rolled her onto her back, and in full view of motorists, other pedestrians, a Westie and an outrageously coiffured Poodle, I cupped the affected paw in my hand and blew warm air on it.

This mended the sore tootsie instantly, but did irreparable damage to Beanie’s street cred. She wriggled to get back on the ground as quickly as possible then double-timed it until she’d put some distance between her and the site of this embarrassing incident. We’ve since had more frost and even a decent snowfall – all of which brought the gritters out of hiding – but we’ve had no more calls for roadside assistance. I fixed it for good, and it only took one try. What breed are these dogs that need endless repetitions? Not Beagles, that’s for sure.

This is what happens when one Beagle obeys the “wait” command, and the other one takes off as soon as he sees the biccie leave my pocket. Life is just not fair.