PeaceBang

Consolation

Max was pretty upset when his buddy tore up his favorite fleece bone during a recent stay, so when I found this one at The Christmas Tree Shop (”Crap You Don’t Need For Under $10!”), I had to get it for him.

They’re just about exactly the same size. It moos like a cow when you bite the middle and squeaks on the ends. He is very, very happy.*

*And no, he won’t play with Fleecey unsupervised, ’cause I ain’t a fool.

Jellicle Cats (and Dogs)

I’m not a fan of the musical “Cats” or of its source material from T.S. Eliot, but I was always intrigued by the idea that cats had a secret “jellicle” name that its people didn’t know. Anyone who has ever lived with a cat knows that they are regal creatures at heart, little gods and goddesses among us, and that they really need names that suit them or they may sulk about the indignity of being called Fluffy for the rest of their lives. You just don’t call a Mungojerrie or Rumpleteaser “Kitty” and Mr. Mistofeles should not be called into the house under the moniker “Muffin.”

When I met my Ermengarde in the shelter she was called “Durgin,” which was just the wrongest, wrongest name possible for her. It was parochial (there’s a popular Boston restaurant called Durgin Park) and way too masculine and heavy. DURRR-GIN. Clunk, clunk. I adopted her, took her home, and waited for her name to emerge. I had it in my mind that I’d like to call her Penelope after Odysseus’s wife, and her nickname would be Nell. I tried that out for a day or two. She didn’t respond much to that name or to Durgin, for that matter. In fact, she seemed much more interested in ordering ME around, pestering me with vocalizations day and night until I translated correctly and provided what she wanted. One afternoon she was putting up such a wailing fuss that I said in exasperation, “ERMENGARDE, stop snivelling!” It’s a line from “Hello, Dolly” (the musical number “Put On Your Sunday Clothes,” actually, and isn’t that fitting for a parsonage cat, now that I think about it!?) and is spoken by Dolly Levi to the perpetually crying and whining character Ermengarde, the diminutive but noisy niece of Horace Vandergelder.

She ran to me and I scooped her up for the first time since she had come home to live with me. “Ermengarde. For heaven’s sake, is that your jellicle name?” It most certainly seems to be close enough, because she comes when called and seems to take great pride in her ridiculously lengthy title. Her middle name is Otis, named for Miss Abigail Otis who gave this house to the church to be its parsonage — on the condition that they re-cast the church bell so that she would be able to hear it from this far away. They did, and this home has housed the ministers of our congregation since 1875.
I’m so not a Durgin, please.

When The Former SweetieBang and I adopted Max in March, he was already one year old and I don’t think it’s fair to change a dog’s name if they’ve already been trained to know and respond to theirs. It can be done, of course, and it works better if the new guardians choose a name that’s similar to the old one, but Former SB and I thought that the name Max suited our doggie very well. He was Max like the kid in “Where the Wild Things Are,” and, coincidentally, like my great-grandfather who came over from Romania.

But as you know, Max is a very popular dog name. In fact, some days it seems that Max is practically EVERY dog’s name. If Max had a more jellicle name I wanted to know it. Yes, I call him Hamhock a lot because he smells deliciously like smoked ham. I call him “Dr. Beaglestein” on occasion, and “Mr. McGumptshul” sometimes (don’t ask, it’s a family thing), and Snootch when he’s being naughty. (Snootch is more of a noun, as in “Don’t be a big snootch.”) I call Max Snoopy now and then, and sometimes Snoop-Dog and also Mr. Speckledy Pants (Ermengarde is Miss Tiger Pants). He also gets called “Underdog” by neighborhood kids, and Mr. Bologna Ears or Mr. Velvety Ears on a frequent basis.

And then there are the variations on Max. I tried them all. Maxwell, Maximillian, Maximus. None of them stuck.

But this morning, Max and I were outside and he was delightedly playing in the tall grass and looking at me with his big beagly brown eyes and suddenly a name popped into my head, “Oh!! MAXFIELD! I get it! MAXFIELD PARRISH!” (Only, of course, he will be Maxfield PARISH, keeping with the Church Dog theme of his life — his former guardians were clergy, too!!!). Max hasn’t been feeling well lately (a cough, nothing to be worried about) but he trotted over to me and flang himself at my feet for tummy rubs. Maxfield. Too much.

I had hoped to call Max “Max Moses” after Former SweetieBang’s mother’s maiden name, and because it is so finely Biblical, but I gotta say: that dog is about as Mosaic as an Easter egg. It never stuck. He needed a lighter, funnier name, a punny name, and a name with the outdoors in it.

My friend Amy is the best namer of animals I have ever met. She has Pettibone, a cranky, curly little dog, Little Compton and Big Cookie, her two adorable sheep, and Goodwin the sweet beagle. Among others. She’ll laugh so hard when I tell her about Maxfield Parish.

PeaceBang’s Pack

When SweetieBang moved out, I was pretty frantic about the idea of being a busy, single beagle mom. I take dog guardianship seriously and the reason I hadn’t adopted a dog years ago was because I think it’s cruel and selfish to leave a pack animal crated or alone for 10-12 hours a day. A cat is one thing: felines are much more solitary animals, and although they get lonely and need attention and play time, they can do fine for long hours on their own. Dogs, however, need much more attention and exercise, not to mention the opportunity to visit their outdoor bathrooms! I thought I was in for expensive dog-sitters and horrible early winter mornings wearily leashing the dog and taking him outside for his toilet business, frantically rushing home after meetings to find a miserable, pee-soaked creature crying in his crate, and loads of guilt.

My anxiety was compounded by my dog’s breed: beagles are notoriously hard to train and for that reason, Greg and I were solemnly advised by the animal shelter never to let Max off his leash. “Beagles are one big nose on four legs, and they’re fast,” warned the shelter director. “The second he smells something exciting or sees a squirrel he’ll be off and tearing through the woods and you won’t see him for days.” All the beagle books said the same thing. I was petrified, as I have acres of woods behind my parsonage and a busy main street (it’s literally Main Street!) out the front door. But Greg reassured me that we could do it; we’d simply leash the dog every time we opened the door, we’d build an expensive fenced-in yard (for which my Parish Committee generously gave permission, even though the initial vision involved cutting a new door into the back of the mud room) and we would, in the words of “Project Runway’s” Tim Gunn, “make it work.”

Then Greg and I didn’t work out, and I got cold feet about caring for the dog on my own. I called my friend Judy who has three beagles and she talked me off the ledge. She described just how to contract for a fenced-in yard and promised to help keep an eye on Max on my busiest days. She cheerleaded me into reconsidering my ability to keep the commitment I had made in late March.

One night in late June I had a talk with Max. We sat on my bed together and I looked into his eyes and told him that I was worried that I couldn’t be the best caregiver for him. I cried. I told him that maybe he deserved to be with a family, with lots of people in and out of the house and a real pack to keep him feeling secure and always loved. I got his velvety ears all wet and he told me with his trusting brown eyes that he knew I already loved him and would do my best. We went to sleep and for once I didn’t move him to the foot of the bed but allowed him to snuggle himself against me, his smooth little seal’s head resting on the curve of my hip. The cat came and curled up at my head, purring. When I awoke the next morning I realized that my fears about caring for the dog I had adopted were actually spiritual fears that have plagued me all of my life: how much love and care are we allowed to ask for? How much nurturing can we expect from those who claim to love us? When does our need for love and care tip into the category of “too needy,” and is there any such thing?

I believe that there is not. I have been told by people I once trusted that there is such a thing as being too needy, and I no longer believe them, although I certainly do believe there is such a thing as having a limited ability to give love. Those who don’t have great reservoirs of love to give often accuse those who desire relationship with them of being too needy. I am finally figuring this out. Yes, extending love, care and compassion can be tiring and can drain our inner resources. But when that happens, it is our own responsibility to care for ourselves, to set boundaries in a kind and fair way, to seek understanding of ourselves and others, not to attack or blame those who are vulnerable and reaching out to us. Yes, there are some unhealthy people in the world who are true energy vampires who give nothing back, but they’re easy to spot and possible to extricate oneself from. They are not the norm. Why had I doubted my capacity to love and care for this adorable little being? Why had I backed away in my heart from this “needy” creature? It was time for an exorcism.

Over the next few days after our little talk, I observed Max carefully and saw that he has five basic needs and that I could meet all of them. His needs are to sleep, to eat, to pee/poop, to play, and to be loved.

I started taking him everywhere with me, determined to make him part of my “pack” of friends and their children and animals. I stopped crating him when I left the house and trusted him with full run of the kitchen, which made our hours apart much easier on both of us. To my great relief and gratitude, he did not engage in any of the beagly behaviors I had been warned about: destroying furniture, digging, or baying. He seems to spend my absence sleeping on a blue cushion, curling up in his crate of his own volition, or chewing toys. I imagine the cat pays him a visit, as she is agile at jumping the baby gates that contain him.

I took him on pastoral visits, and to church meetings. I took him on play dates with doggie pals –with great trepidation because he’s not always well-behaved when meeting other dogs during walks. To my relief, I found that Max is great on playdates. My friend Michael encouraged me to let him off leash in his backyard one afternoon and I was elated to find that when other doggies are around, Max is happy to frolic in the immediate vicinity and shows no considerable interest in tearing off in pursuit of prey. Victory! I encouraged him to curl up in my lap while I watched movies or read books, understanding that for him, warm bodies in a pile means comfort and family even if for me it means dog hair on my clothes and a furry puppy making me warmer on a hot day. I maintained some necessary boundaries with him (no, he can’t visit the bathroom with me, no, he can’t jump on me when I’m eating or cooking, no, he can’t come into the store with me, no, he can’t play with my shoes, clothes or home furnishings but he CAN play with one of his many toys. No, he can’t terrorize Ermengarde, he has to respect her as Feline Diva of the Household.) I wrestled with him on the living room floor until we were both panting and laughing. He fake-gnawed on my neck and growled and I gnawed on his neck and growled right back. He absolutely loved every second.

I began to sleep as late as I wanted, and Max slept soundly along with me. He is fine managing his bladder around my schedule. I had obsessed over nothing.

For the first time in my life, I let instinct guide me and shut out the old, critical voices that would judge the way I was choosing to integrate this dog into my life. “You give that dog far too much attention,” or “Just let him chase the cat, she’s too spoiled” or “He has to learn to be alone, just get on with your life.”
What if I gave him all the love and attention he needs for awhile? I wondered. What if I just met all his needs and made him my focus for a couple of weeks, not rejecting him in any way for being “too needy” because he obviously wants to be with me so much? What if I treated him the way I would like to be treated, which is to be totally and unconditionally accepted for my nature? What if I did the dog thing instead of the human thing and didn’t project my own wounds and insufficiencies onto this little animal?

So that’s what I did, and what I am still doing. One afternoon a week or so ago as we were walking out in the yard, I thought about how much I DON’T want to build a fenced-in yard or get an electric/invisible fence that would zap Max and maybe not even work. Then I had a radical thought: what if the shelter director was wrong? What if all the books are over-generalizing about beagles? What if this beagle is just a really mellow version of the breed who can be trusted off his leash in my own backyard? What if he had some obedience training by his previous guardians that is or was unapparent to me? What’s the worst that could happen if I tested my theory? He’ll run off and I’ll be a worried mess and then he’ll come home or a neighbor will find him — maybe even Judy! What if I let go of fear around this dog and started having some real fun with him? I opened my hand and let go. Max ran off with the leash towing behind him while I watched, trusting and hoping with all my heart that I was right. He bolted down the length of the yard, made a happy little circle in the grass, and came bounding right back toward me. He thought it was a great game. I clapped and whooped, and he tore around like Seabiscuit, excited and proud and loving his freedom.

And so we did that for about a week. I put baby carrots in my pockets and took him to the back yard, letting go of the leash and letting him run around, sniff and do his business. I made up a little three-note whistle to use when I wanted him to come to me and he learned that when he did, he might get a carrot treat in addition to a thousand kisses. “Max!” I whistle, clap twice, squat down and open my arms. My beagle comes flying toward me, ears flapping in the wind, and skids to a stop between my knees. He never tires of coming to get his loving praise and I never tire of giving it. Sometimes it takes four or five whistles for him to obey me. Sometimes he goes into the woods to scout out some creature and I have to go in and help him “remember” where I am. But even as I am leading him firmly back to the yard, I never yell at him, only correct him with stern and simple commands he can understand, like “Off” or “Come.” And then, even if it took a few “reminders’, he is lavished with love and praise when he gets where I want him, because I want him to associate coming back to home base with happy feelings with Alpha Dog Mom.

As of two days ago, he doesn’t even have the leash attached at all. He comes outside when given permission, follows me to the yard, and we play. I throw a ball and he catches it and runs to me with it. Sometimes he bolts right by me and I have to mock-chase him, which he adores. He races around in circles until he exhausts himself and flops down in the grass. He drinks from a yellow bowl filled with rainwater. I scold him for eating poop (we have to work on that), but he comes to my whistle with 95% reliability. When I think we’ve had enough, I whistle and clap and he follows me inside, through the screen door where the cat has been looking out and waiting for us.

We are a pack. Everyone gets, and gives, all the love they need, and it is never too much.

(Max on his way to or from a playdate, mid-yawn, July 2008)

Boy, Dog, Summer

Look how happy Max looks! He’s laughing!

Desmond looks on while Max displays Optimum Bologna Ears.

“Nom, nom, nom, I am Sir Cute-A-Lot from the Kingdom of Chew-A-Lot and I will snarf and then chew this cute child!”

Add some watermelon and burgers fresh off the grill and you’ve got yourself just the perfect summer’s day, IMHO.

How Far Should We Go To Save Our Pets? A Guest Column By Max and Ermengarde

Max: Hi, this MAx.
Ermengarde: And this is Erm. Max, let me start.
First of al plese excuse our speling and typng. Not easy w/ paw.s
We read an article wtih our Human Lady from The Boston Glob about how humans love us (of curse theydo) and spend alot of muney and worry wen we get sik and sometimz make us go to the hospitel alot to save our livz. Max and I have been talking about it.

Max: Ermengaourd did a LINK!! Ermengourd did a LINK!

Erm: I know but your off topic, Max.
Max: oh that’s right- this was about, we were talking about how many humens try to take care of us and sometims are very a little extreme about it!

Erm: Exactly and we just want to say that we think its a littl crazy sometimes only because humans have to know that we have to die sometimes everything has to die and let me try to explain to you that our hole life is basickly eating, sleeping, loving our people…

Max: Sometimes we love the other animulz in the HOUSE with us only they dont always lov us back butwe dont now why!

Erm: max, your off topic again, and it is becaus you are a DOG okay don’t take it personaly

Max: someday you will let me lick your head and cuddle with you I know it

Erm: Maybe. But more the poynt here is what I’m saying that in my oponion i was very hapi when Human Lady broght me to the hospital last yeer when i couldn’t breathe and she saved me because i’m a young cat and will be around for maybe ten more years even to enjoy life but what if I was 15? She could let me go over the Rainbow Bridge into cat heven or to the Heavyside Layer from “Cats” the best show in the world and it would be OKAY because every body dies

Max: Well MOSTLY everybody does

Erm: No, MAx. EVERYBODEE.

Max: What about the Immortal Poodle? I did hear the story of the Immortal Poodle when i was a puppy what about that?

Erm: It was just a story someone made up to make you feel better.

Max: i dont beleve you. i don’t even beleeve you. Does CEELING CAT DIE?

Erm: Ceiling Cat is immortal, invisible and omniputent. So no but Ceiling Cat isn’t alive. This is beyond your comprehenshun.

Max: why how come there isn’t a ceiling DOG anyways?

Erm: These things can’t be explaind.

Max: well i going to chew on a bone now. i only one years old

Ermengarde: Good idea. But before I go myself let me just emphasize to the humans that we apprecishiat everything you do for our people but don’t feel like you can’t let us go if it is our time the plain truth is we jsut really dn’t live that long and if we were lucky enough to have you take care of us we think if we go over the rainbow bridge its OKAY because mostly we know that some other animul can get adopted when we are gone and thats a good thing

Max: also we hate going to the hospital and having operations and serious things so much!
Erm: that’s true i dont even like to have my TEETH BRUSHED
MAx: you not even likes to has your FURS brushed!
Erm: At least I know enough to poop in a BOX and dont have be taken aspecially outside for that like YOU -ALSO I would NEVER walk on a leash. you dont understand the Leash Resistance Movement at all! you are a collaborater!
Max: but i do like to go on walks I not understand why it a problem!
Erm: that’s why i merely tolerate you.
Max:Let’s go eat some kibble
Erm: That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day.

“Max, weren’t you supposed to get up early and go job hunting today?”

Friday Cat and Dog Blogging

Max: I just spent three days playing with my friend Tony while Mom was away. I so tired my eyes almost closing already. Ear flopping. Falling asleep…

Ermengarde: I thought you had gone away forever and I am SO MAD you came back. I wouldn’t even be up here if Mom hadn’t rubbed cat nip on your legs.

Friday Max Blogging

Hi everyone

One day I went to Petco this week but i don’t remember and got my nails clipped whichwas terrible it was the worst adn Idid squirm alot which you are not supposed to do but I forgot to say that i really hated it.
In case you didn’t know this beagles which are my people, beagles are very positive and happy dogs and i don’t hate anything except having my ears cleaned, i forgot that i hate that too but I am always GOOD and happy so it takes a lot for me to whine which when i do I sound like a teakettle boiling, that’s what human mom says. the groomer christine wanted to smack me for love-biting her a little bit - it was only play bites I promise just little nibbles like grrr, just playing, see?- human mom was there watching and trying to destract me so christine did not get to sneak in a smack but she did twisted my paws -ouch!- and i would just like to say dont probly go to Petco for nails maybe go for a bath or brushing or something . mom is afraid to cut my nails but i am asking her please to try to learn how to do it right so i dn’t have to go back there please !? it’s Not that hard! also how come they got facials for dogs there at petco ? that smell like blueberry or strawberi? why that is? what dogs that you know do like to smell like a blueberryi on their face? my face smells like a potato chip isn’t that so much better? i confused about that one so is human mom.

but I got over the terrible nail Clipping then i was in the BIG STORE with so many treats and smells!!! but we did not get any treats we got instead we got - wait. first I have to tell you that there was another beagle getting groomed! and a wiener dog and also a cat the same exactly colors as me and I DID get excited - I always get extra excited when other beagles are around i don’t know why - and I did go “baroo!” and then everyone laughed very hard but did you know that it’s HARD to run on the shiny, slippery floor they got in that place?
But anwya we did NOT get treats or any toys that day even though I tried to sneak one big pigs ear into the cart mom found it and said, “no, Max” but we did get some kibble (BORING!) and also this is the most disapointing thing, we got a special collar for me that makes me not PULL. it is a collar kind of thing but goes over my tummy and when i wear it mom can steer me around like a horse. that is my New word, horse, because we have horses who live next to us at first I thought they were just very big dogs. oh if only I could roll in their doots! they smell so good! mmmmm, horse dooties. also my other favorite thing is ice cubes so you can give me one any time, okay?

love, max
P.s. happy fourth of july I hope fireworks don’t scare anyone!

[i so tired after my day at Petco)
PS the cat is cranky and shedding more than me but she won’t sit still to be brushed - she is nawtier than even me rolling in dooties. that’s what i think. but i love her still and hope she will someday play with me.

(you say “hairball” like it’s a bad thing! - Ermengarde)

First Time Out

Today was a glorious day so I popped Max into the car and drove into the big city to see what it would be like having him with me at an arts festival on Boston Common. His first Boston outing!

He rode in like an angel and we drove around the Common a couple of times looking for metered parking. Just as I was on my third go-round and hoping Max wasn’t getting car-sick going in circles (he seemed perky and fine; I, however, was getting green around the gills), I SPOTTED A SPACE! I drove toward it, just about to turn on my indicator signal when a BMW crossed two lanes of Charles Avenue and screeched in front of me to cut me off and steal the space. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, it just isn’t done. You usually don’t see this sort of thing until Christmas time, honestly.

I thought maybe they didn’t see me. I said to myself, “Surely they didn’t mean to do that. Surely they’ll turn out to have some manners.” I rolled down my window and yelled, “HEY! You cut me off! That was my space!” I realized right away this was going to fall on deaf ears when I saw a Patagonia -clad guy with an incredibly self-conscious haircut and super fashionable spectacles get out of the car and look my way with a glance of utter disgust. Mr. Privilege incarnate. “You don’t cut someone off and steal their space!!” How lame. Why did I bother? Like he cared! Mr. Haircut responded with an original remark that begins with an “f” and ends with a “u.” I responded with some of my own original remarks (unkind but not quite that charming) and drove off to look for a space. It just wasn’t my day. I’m also of the belief that even if someone passes a departing car, if they put their blinker on first it’s only fair for me to back up and let them have the space. They were before me in line, is how I see it. Call me a sucker, but I usually have good parking karma so I stick with my little rules.

I’ve heard people complain about the obnoxiousness of BMW drivers all my life and one doesn’t like to harbor prejudices, but today was a banner day for validating that prejudice. To be fair, I never saw the driver. The passenger was bad enough. I imagined him saying, “Gun it, man. Cut that broad off.” I was going the speed limit, silly me, because I had a BEAGLE in my back seat!

I finally gave up on finding meter parking and parked in a garage for $11. Max refused to ride the elevator on the way out of the garage (but he did on the way back in!) but was otherwise a champ, sniffing his way through the concrete underground like Sherlock Holmes’ basset hound. We had an excellent experience at the festival, he met lots of doggies, and there was only one mishap when someone scared him from behind and he got himself wrapped around a pole and almost pulled down one exhibitor’s pavilion. (I am right now making a face that expresses my total agreement with anyone who is thinking, or was thinking at that moment, “Beagle people are the BMW people equivalent of the dog world.”) I promise that we were profusely helpful and apologetic and didn’t leave until we were sure everything was sturdily in place again.

It was a beautiful day! We walked over to the Boston Garden and sat on a bench by the duck boat pond. I chatted with a friendly couple and hummed along with two fiddlers who were playing a few feet away. “You are my sunshine, la da di da da…” I got up to put a dollar in the musicians’ violin case when I realized who they were. Mr. BMW and his Friendly Passenger, Mr. Haircut!! Oh, how rich!! I told the couple about our little encounter earlier in the day and we all roared with laughter. “I was going to give them a buck,” said the man, “but maybe I’ll go take one out!”

By God, the two of them: playing peaceful folk tunes in their Keene sandals, collecting dollars on a sunny day, having mere hours before endangered my and my dog’s lives with aggressive driving. The name of the duo is “First Time Out,” and I enjoyed the look of profound discomfort on Mr. Haircut’s face as I stepped up to read their sign and jot down their name. Big smile for both of them. The driver, of course, had no idea who I was. He probably thought I was taking down their name so they could play at my kid’s bar mitzvah or something.

I’ve been late to gigs before myself. I’ve been frantic for parking while trying to make stage manager’s call or a guest preaching engagement. I know the feeling. It stinks to spend $10 or even $20 on parking, and it stinks to get a parking ticket because you don’t have enough time on the meter, but it happens. What kills me is that these guys were just feet away from the ramp to the municipal parking ramp when they skidded across the road to cut me off. They were on their way to a gig and could have written off the $11 as a professional expense! Was it worth whiplash to save $11?

So my point, and I do have one, is to ask if any of you could design a little BEAGLE ON BOARD oval sticker in the style of “Baby on Board” or in the style of those location stickers (ACK for Nantucket, etc.). If I have the artwork I can order one from CafePress.com, and I’d like to put one on the car.

In my experience aggressive drivers don’t care if they imperil the lives of humans, but most people, deep down, have a soft spot for the dawgies. Maybe a BEAGLE ON BOARD sticker would have also reminded the teenaged girl driver who was tailgating me and everyone else as she zig-zagged madly down Route 3 southbound this afternoon to cool it.

Both of the animals are curled up sound asleep right now, grateful that Big Mommy Kitty Cat didn’t order them Cats/Dogs for Obama t-shirts from Cafe Press (yet).

Friday Cat and Dog Blogging

My little beagle is curled up in the tiniest possible roll on my bed right now as I write this on Thursday evening. He has had his biggest day with me so far — it was a day of testing him as True Pastor’s Dog. His schedule went like this:

11-12:30 Attend meeting with Mom at church. After greeting everyone, slept on floor throughout.
12:30-1:30 Take longest drive yet (on the highway, even!) to nursing home visit. Behave like angel all the way there in little doggie seatbelt.
1:40-2:20 Cheer up 94-year old friend in nursing home and get lots of pets from nurses and other residents. Behave like an angel except for brief naughty moment of jumping on wrong residents’ bed. Pee on lawn before getting back in car for drive back. Drink water out of tupperware in car.
2:20-3:30 Another big car ride, get stuck in traffic, wind up having to go with Mom to next visit. Sleep on floor for 45 minutes.
3:30-3:45 Take a little walk and behave like perfect gentlemen except for unsuccessful mad dash toward horse manure with the objective of eating or rolling in it.
3:50-4:00 Wait quietly in car while Mom picks up soft shell crabs from market.
4:15 Return home. Poop in yard. Eat. Sleep.

I think that’s a 4-star beagle we got there.

As Max snoozes, Ermengarde announces her presence on the bed with a loud “eoww!” She’s missed us all day and wants to know what’s going on. She has developed a slightly bossy big-sister attitude toward Max but there’s definitely love there. Last night at about 3:30 AM (technically this morning), Max started whimpering in his sleep. His whimperings turned into a full-fledged puppy nightmare and he cried and cried as I talked softly to him and comforted him (he had a tough vet appointment two days ago, would a dog have a nightmare about something like that?). As I was sleepily petting Max back to sleep, I heard the familiar *thump* of Ermengarde’s landing on the bed and watched through the dark as she sniffed him cautiously from the back and then tip-toed toward his head. He got two little sandpaper kisses on his smooth little noggin before she hopped back down and scrammed out of there.

I never thought I’d see the day. She’s pretty 4-star herself, little miss tigerpants.

A Love Song To Max From His New Friends

Sung to the tune of “Close To You”
by the Carpenters

To Max, who is on Avantix (”An advantage for the ticks!”) and two kinds of medication for his giardia parasite:

Why do ticks suddenly appear
every time you are near?
Just like me, they long to be
CLOSE TO YOU.

Why do ticks fall down from the sky
every time you walk by?
Just like me, they long to be
CLOSE TO YOU.

On the day that you were born
the ticks all got together
and saw how soft and munchable you were –
So they launched themselves into your ears
and tail and paws
and even in your fur!

(piano glissandos)

THAT is why
all the ticks in town
follow you
all around
Just like me
they long to be…
CLOSE TO YOU

(ahhh chorus)