Dear Goddamned Beagle,
This was my afternoon.
A knock on the front door. No one’s expected, and you’re being walked by Auntie E.
Open the door.
Auntie E: I’m REALLY sorry. Hangs head.
I look down. You are looking up at me, eyes shining, tail softly wagging. In your mouth is a large, misshapen, very dead squirrel, one leg sticking out at an improbable angle, as if reaching for a last hint of hope. You start to walk forward. You would like to come in now.
Umm, no, I say to you. I realize I’m not even phased.
Auntie E: I tried to push it out with a stick, but she growled at me. I tried to run thinking she’d drop it, but she just ran with it. Hangs head again.
I go to the kitchen and get a heaping handful of the smelliest treats I have, some chicken, maybe a mini banana. Whatever. I take it back to the front door where you remain standing, tail still gently wagging, and I let go, showering the treats all over you and across the porch. You look right. You look left. You drop the squirrel and starts eating the goodies.
You know, I say to E, as I take the leash and she gets two boards with which to transport the squirrel to a better resting place than my welcome mat, you really need to carry smelly things around with you if you’re going to walk a beagle.
This is my new normal, Beagle.