Dog Talk

I’ve recently discovered something about my relationship with this middle-aged girl:

Somehow, after almost eight years of ownership, I have become mildly allergic to my beagle.

I’m pretty quick, so it only took three good instances of me sitting on the “dog’s” (shudder) chair and cozying up with the blanket she artfully arranges for herself each day on said chair (shudder turning to eyes-rolling-with-nostrils-flared) and then feeling the urge to repeatedly rub my eyes and verily shaking the house with my sneezes to sleuthily cement that conclusion.

I did say my beagle, didn’t I?

Well, let me tell you, if you happen to be one of the few to whom I have not yet relayed this key info: I did not choose her. She was my birthday present. Tiny and adorable and the best birthday present a husband who always wanted a beagle could give.

She is Beatrice: affectionate, smart, bossy, slothful.

And mostly a pain in my ass.

Maybe it’s my kind-of rural upbringing at play but, while I don’t think all dogs are meant to live outside, I also don’t think any dog – mine especially – should:

* Push me off my own furniture

* Eat food off my counter

* Eat food off my plate

* Take unoffered food out of my hand

* Decorate our deck with garbage pulled from a bag

* Be habitually found doing this on my bed:

And, guys, I know what you’re going to say. All those things are my/our fault. I get that. I know all about the Dog Whisperer. Rather than do anything about it, however, I keep her and complain instead.

I do hold up my end of the bargain I didn’t necessarily consensually enter. I walk the dog. I encourage the kids to be nice to her and reprimand them the rare times they’re not. I pet her, give her a good behind-the-ear scratch when she seems to need one and even a belly rub from time to time – even though, for a reason I can’t quite grasp, the black spots on her pink belly, only partially masked by her fine white hair, give me the willies.

While telling my kids about my allergy discovery, my oldest daughter fell quiet and sad. I assured her it didn’t mean we needed to get rid of Beatrice (bonus points, right dog lovers?) because the allergy is so mild. Lily replied that she wasn’t worried about that (whew!), but it made her think of Beatrice getting old and dying (huh?).

I promise you I have never genuinely threatened my dog’s life. But I do like to balance any tender gestures with some choice words – just to keep her on her toes/paws. I often ask Beatrice if she knows how many beagles they have at the Humane Society.

In fact, just the other evening, as I was preparing to let her outside where sat a most tantalizing bag of garbage, I was asking la pooch if she would like to join her kin – because she most certainly would if she touched that bag – when my husband came around the corner and asked who, exactly, I was talking to.

Standing tall (all 5’4 of me), chin held high, I told him just what I was saying and to whom. And this is what I got back:

“Yeah, right, you lose your shit any time she gets sick or hurt.”

Gulp.

And sigh.

Because for all my braggadocio - allergy and all - I can’t argue.