Happy Birthday, Jack!

I remember hearing people joke that before couples have children, they get a dog --I guess to practice or whatever. I suppose we are guilty of that, making our first "child" our Beagle, Jack. OK, people, a little indulgence here -- I'm a sucker for animals, especially dogs ... my dog. Today is his birthday, a whopping 8 years old (or 56 in human years). I'll never forget when we got our middle-aged pal, because the decision to become dog owners wasn't actually ours. We were living in our first "real" house (purchased ourselves -- our brief two-year stint with home ownership, equity, and all those other big grown-up words associated with it), and one day in late July my father-in-law called to say a neighbor was selling off his litter of Beagle puppies. He was thinking of getting one (he's a long-time hunter) and wanted to know if we were interested (in the dog, not in the hunting). We said we would have to think about it -- I mean, that's a pretty big decision. We both adore animals, but while Don grew up with Beagles and was familiar with dog-ownership, I never had one (despite my constant childhood pleas, and my parents' equally firm replies to the negative). I, on the other hand, had hamsters (even had one in seminary) -- something very different than owning a dog. We just weren't sure this was the right time for us.

Well, like I said, the decision ultimately wasn't ours. My father-in-law called back the next day, saying he purchased two puppies, the last of the litter -- one for him, and one for us. Now I absolutely love dogs, but I was not sure I was ready for this -- and I certainly do not like having decisions made for me. But, as Tony Soprano would say, "Whaddaya gonna do ..." Indeed. So in those following weeks I made the necessary purchases of all things related to dogs, I made the necessary phone calls to friends who had dogs for quick over-the-phone tips on what the heck I was getting myself into and what the heck I was supposed to do, and in the first week of August we packed up the car and headed toward our destiny in the Poconos.

We drove to the neighbor's place and I have to admit I was really appalled at the conditions. The father -- a gorgeous, perfect Beagle and a renowned hunter -- was chained to a post, while the mother was locked in what looked like a large rabbit hutch, crammed in there with her remaining two puppies. The cage was disgustingly filthy, with more dog poop on the floor than visible flooring. There was only one bowl of food, apparently shared by the entire litter, with the mother eating last. From what we were told, all the local hunters came and with their infinite wisdom picked the best puppies for their upcoming hunting expeditions. I'm not sure why no one chose Mike (who went to my in-laws -- he ended up being a total doofus, a spaz of a dog, but very cute in a simpleton sort of way. So much for the great hunter), but Jack was the runt. He was timid, was glued to his mother, and was the last to eat (and therefore a bit smaller than the others). Everyone dismissed him as a "loser" and not worth his salt in the hunting world. That was perfectly fine with us -- we weren't going hunting, and a quiet beagle was perfect. I fell in love with him the minute I saw him. At 8 weeks old, he was all eyes and ears. Taking him from his mother, though, was one of the most heart-breaking experiences of my life. He cried, she cried, I cried ... it was awful. But I knew we couldn't leave him there in that filthy place, so we held him up one last time -- he on the outside of the coop, she on the inside -- they cried and touched noses, and off we went. It was truly heart-breaking.

Jack was a dream dog in many ways: fairly easy to train (except in the food department -- you will never get that out of a beagle), very quiet, lovable to the point of being clingy, sweet disposition. He's been a friend, a companion, a stress-reliever -- everything you always hear about in a good dog. And the most ironic thing is that out of the entire litter, he's the best hunter, as far as instinct goes. We aren't "hunting people" (Don is reformed), but even on a calm lazy walk his instinct kicks in. His muzzle is starting to turn white, he's slowing down, but from time to time we'll see a burst of puppy energy. Don's childhood Beagle lived to be 16 years old, so I'm hoping we have many years left ahead of us. He's a wonderful dog, and a huge part of our life.

Happy birthday, buddy. We're glad you're a part of our family.