Luck Runs Out - almost

I guess it's time to confess to a dirty little secret.

We have a beagle.

I've mentioned this hound a couple of times before, and after yesterday's trauma I suppose it's time to "reveal all".

This tale starts in early 2004 when the friend-of-a-friend asked for help if locating a beagle to adopt. At that time I had good connections with rescue and shelters (we lived elsewhere in NM at that time), so after clarifying the seeker's requirements (young adult, 15", altered, housebroken, good with kids), I put out my feelers. Over the course of a few months I screened several candidates, none fit the bill.

Until one day, a owner-surrender came across my radar.
To say that "Copper", as he was then called, was fat, is to make light of his girth. The dog was hugely obese, 56# in a 15" body. This, people, is what animal cruelty looks like. Obesity is easy to prevent, and puts incredible stresses on the body's joints and organs. It is mean and irresponsible to allow a dog - any animal - to eat so much that this becomes their condition.

At five years old.

I drove to Albuquerque, temperament tested the dog (with kids, food, toys, and basic husbandry), and found him charming and stable. I stepped outside, called the seeker, confirmed they wanted this dog, and bailed Copper out of the shelter and into my car.

Not the first time I'd brought home a rescue, not the last. But he turned out to be a rescue like no other. The old adage that "no good deed goes unpunished" may have flitted through my mind... I don't really remember.

I seem to recall it was a Thurdsay when I did this... the next day we all headed out of town for an agility trial, taking the new dog with us (he couldn't fly out until the next week as we were awaiting veterinary paperwork). Turned out Copper had a terrible vice: baying. Incessantly. The friends set up next to us at the agility trial actually moved to get away from the noise. We were pariahs all weekend.

No matter, he was leaving in a few days.

And leave he did, shipped out by air to his new owners, who had pined for a beagle for nearly three years.

And three days later I spoke to the new owners, to see how things were going. Oh, fine, they said. He's sweet and smart and the grandkids love him, but he's too tall so we're taking him to the shelter here.

Um, WTF? No, you're not. Read the contract, he comes back to me, on your nickle. No exceptions. (Too tall? Seriously? Whatever.)

So Copper was flown back to us - promptly dubbed "Boomerang" - and a new adventure began.

He arrived heavier than when he left - now a staggering 58#. Boomer was granted house privileges while we figured out how to place him again, and he relished in the new accommodations.

New Mexico Beagle Rescue was over-stuffed and unable to take him, so we agreed to foster Boomer until a new home was found. I took him back to the vet for a detailed exam (his initial trip had been to secure a Health Certificate so he could be flown out of state) - and we were shocked by what the vet found: bilateral subluxating patellas, lubo-sacral disease, and worst of all, a severe heart murmur. This was no longer a dog that could be placed in a pet home. We could return him to the shelter or keep him.

Hardly a choice at all.

So Boomer went on a diet. At that time Rick was the house-spouse, so Boomer joined the border collies on long daily walks in the 500 acre open-space behind us. A strict, high-quality diet, proper supplements, and countless miles later, a very attractive hound emerged:
This picture was taken just four months after Boomer went on a diet - still too heavy at 35#, but soooooo much better than he was.

There was, and still is, fall-out from his early years of being free-fed. Boomer had come to see food as his god-given right to consume at will. He counter surfs, steals food off the plate in front of you and sometimes out of your hand, walks on the dining table, tears open food bags, grocery bags, trash bags - anything that contains something remotely edible. Having a beagle has turned out to be a lifestyle, and one frankly that we don't particularly enjoy.

Boomer is also an escape artist - which he proved in spades yesterday and is actually the prompt of this post. One of my favorite stories involves my sister (and mostly because it [A] wasn't a failure on my part, and [B] it ended well) who came over to potty dogs while Rick and I were away for several hours. I had a HUGE sign posted, which she looked at after letting the dogs into the back yard. The sign said: do not let Boomer outside unsupervised. She ran into the back yard, only to discover Boomer was already gone. The sounds of screams from next door (we lived in suburbia at the time) drew her attention - Boomer had gone over the back wall, down a culvert, up the other side, through a neighbor's garage, into Vera's house via the cat door, and was eating her cat's food in her kitchen.

We bought Vera a bouquet of flowers.

Since moving to our Ranchero, keeping track of Boomer has become part art and part science. Because he digs (the only one of our dogs to do so), we have learned the hard way - repeatedly - that there's no such thing as a beagle-proof fence. He can go under, around, and through anything - and regularly does. Gates are no challenge. The dog-equipment industry has yet to invent a collar or harness that can contain him. (We should have named him Houdini.) Supervision is the only solution, as training (it took me three years and multiple attempts to get him to pass a CGC test) only works when you are vastly more interesting than some distant temptation. At night he wears a lighted collar and a bear-bell so we have some notion of where he is in the small dog-yard off the house.

This winter was harsh. We've had many many feet of snow and the ground has been frozen for four months.

We got sloppy about watching Boomer. By we, I mostly mean me.

Yesterday, just before lunch, I put Boomer out to potty, then the phone rang. I answered the phone and chatted for twenty minutes. Then it hit me. Fuck, Boomer's outside.

I grabbed a coat (it was howling wind) and dashed out the door - no Boomer in the dog yard. I stepped back in the mudroom, grabbed a leash, and headed to the barn. Boomer finds horse-poop irresistible, and has been known to break into Bugg's stall for a gorge-fest. It is, in fact, his preferred destination. This time - no Boomer. I knew I was in trouble.

After a quick survey of the rest of the ranchero, I went with the feeling in my gut: Boomer was off-property.

Fighting the panic rising in my system, I called Home Again and started printing flyers. I called all the neighbors (which covered 40 acres in 5 phone calls), let Rick know, and headed out the gate. I had posted four flyers and was was taping the fifth when the phone rang: A guy had Boomer in his garage, about 1/2 mile to the east.

Total elapsed time: a little over an hour.

Toll on my being: about 100 years.

While letting the microchip company know the dog was missing was the right thing to do, that isn't what got him back in my possession so quickly. It was the brass plate on his collar - home phone number, the word R E W A R D, and the microchip information. All of which is duplicated on his tags.

It was 15 degrees overnight; imagine if he'd been out all night. A 10 year old dog with cancer, not much body fat or coat. It was luck he didn't cross the main road, but stayed on "this" side, avoiding the traffic that routinely speeds down the hill. Boomer was trying to break into this guy's dogyard, where a bowl full of kibble is out all day for his own dogs. Thankfully the guy was home and heard the ruckus, caught Boomer easily, and checked the collar.

He wouldn't take the reward money I offered. Hey, I've got dogs, been there. No worries.

So now we have a hole under the fence to fill, gate mesh to extend, and I'm seriously considering electrifying the bottom interior of the dog yard. It already looks like a prison out there... hey, maybe I should consider concertina wire... No, I've got it: I'll train him to use a litterbox, so he'll never go out of the house again.

Yeah, right.

That is my confession. We have a beagle, and all too frequently he gets the better of us. Our first - and last - scenthound. A beloved member of our family, but... never again. One of these days his luck is going to run out, for good. And that will be very sad indeed.