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All Roads do not Lead to Bones

All Roads do not Lead to Bones

We have an adorable-looking beagle. Notice the word ‘looking’.

And don’t get me wrong idea – I love my beagle, Mr Howell, I do. Like crazy even. But I can say with as much emotion: I can’t stand my beagle. He drives me crazy. Even. Like right now, he is staring at me, right into my brain. I know this, even though he is sitting behind me. This is what he does. Just one of the the things he does, to torture me. Not my husband or my daughter or anyone else in his world, just me.

And though I understand that food is at the forefront of any conniving, analytical, self-serving thought that passes through his adorable-looking head, he continues to pull me into his little mind games. We both know that Kent is alpha dog, which means that beta dog is up for grabs. And consequently (without alarming you with details of our strange animal-behaviour), this results in a constant state of canine rivalry.

OK, I will give tell you just this one example, though I’m risking that you side with His Howell-ness, as you have to experience this to really understand. Every night Mr Howell sits by his bed, which is a tent, and waits for me to straighten his bedding. He doesn’t like to sleep on creases you see. And it’s not sufficient to throw the blankets about. One must tuck the corners in and straighten them tight like a drum, and then he will crawl in with his critical eye. And while I am busy doing this, head first in his tent, with just my butt and feet sticking out, he sits his hairy one (butt) down behind me and gloats. It is like his favorite time of day – me in the hairy tent, and he: outside and ordering me to do my chamber chores before he retires for the evening. I swear it’s true.

And that is how I finally figured it out – why Mr Howell is still here at one hundred and eight.

He isn’t content to think himself human.

He is waiting for me to think myself dog.

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