Dear Goddamned Beagle,
There are times when you are nothing short of Shakespearean in your misery.
“It is enough,” you convey, “that you woke me up to feed me mere kibble before demanding that I freeze my lady parts in chest deep snow for my morning micturation and ablutions.
“Your one-legged snow removal is vaguely appreciated, but it does not go unnoticed that half the time you’re using that shovel to balance on your carelessly broken limb. This means I have to wait, shivering in the cold, while you clear my path.
“I’m glad that Eve, of her own volition and no thanks to you, stops by to take me on the walk you can no longer be bothered to take me on – a trend, I’ve noticed, since you fell off those stairs a couple of months ago. But as much as I enjoy going out, your joint insistence on wrapping me in this outfit is not OK. Not at all OK.”
If one listens carefully, your groans, howls and snorts reveal a message, like a beagle Paul McCartney played backwards:
In other words, you hate the coat and boots. I get it. Also, it’s possible you don’t think my, “No one will mistake her for a deer today” joke is as funny as I do.
But take heart, Beagz. Although this storm has been troubling, the weather predictors of old swore that a March that came in like a lion would go out like a lamb, offering hope as well as a yummy creature for you to dream about. Soon enough you’ll be gasping for water in the heat while asking to walk another mile, and soon enough I’ll be able to escort you properly.
In the mean time I hear you at the window, making your feelings known to all who pass by:
What is the reason that you use me thus?
I loved you ever. But it is no matter.
Let Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew and dog will have his day.
I have no doubt, Beagle.