Seems to be my week for dog blogs. I won't tell you about my favorite of all my dog companions.  He was a blue-eyed red Husky named Sky Hawk. You may read about him in my book, Ghost Walk, which should be out in August. 

I did, however, promise to tell you all about my purebred Basset Hound.  His name was Sir Bernard Kensington Paddington, but he was such a lovable doofus everyone called him "Bubba." I was a busy young widow rearing four teenagers alone, and my assistant buyer had to get rid of him, as he and his wife were going to have a baby. Actually, it was a two for one deal. They also had a small German Shepherd named Pepper my younger daughter fell in love with, so we adopted both of them. The photo below looks almost like him, but I was so busy I didn't have time to take any pictures. Of course, this one is photo-shopped. Bubba liked his chow, but he never owned a lunch pail.  Also you'd have to imagine his ears about two inches longer. He was always stepping on them!

I had a redwood chaise lounge which I liked to sit in of an evening and sip a cup of coffee while watching the stars come out.  Bubba would come running and leap into my lap. Suddenly my face would be slathered with wet doggie kisses as his big ole tail whammed between my feet. Bubba was not always good at coming when called, nor was Pepper. My daughter and I decided to enroll them in obedience classes.  It was great fun for my daughter, Pepper, and Bubba, but totally humiliating for me!

He did just fine with all the commands - sit, stay, heel, but when it was time to trot them around in circles while they were learning to heel, Bubba's short little legs just wouldn't allow him to keep up with the Rotweilers, Malamutes, and German Shepherds in our class. They would lap us three times.  Bubba tripping on his ears didn't help his speed any, either.  The other dogs and their owners, including my own daughter, laughed at us. Even Sherry, the woman who owned the obedience school couldn't keep herself from it. Bubba didn't mind. He just kept on truckin' until we finished our laps. I know my face was beet red.

I kept Bubba for several years, until my first grandchild was on the way. My grandchild was born three months premature and weighed 1 lb., 15 oz., so I knew right then I had to find a new home for Bubba.  One of Bubba's paws was bigger around than that baby's head! It turned out a girl who worked with me had an uncle who bred Bassets, had a ten year old son, and his little ranch was 640 acres. He knew the breeder who had bred Bubba, so he was willing to take the dog sight unseen.  Sir Bernard Kensington Paddington lived out his days at stud, swimming in farm ponds, and basking in the Oklahoma sun after playing with his boy.

Tomorrow or the next day, I'll tell you about my first "granddogger," Miss Dusty from Durango.

Hi, everyone.  Today I'm talking about Beagles and other dogs I have known, prompted by my friend Rebeca Schiller who blogged about humiliating her Beagle, Trumbo by posting his overweight picture on Facebook.  I've only known two Beagles in real life, and I didn't really like either one of them.  Neither did my daughter's long haired Chihuahua, but I did manage to humiliate him once.  I'll tell you about that shortly.

My first "Beagle" was a half Beagle, half Basset Hound pound puppy named Basil.  My daughters knew I wanted a Basset, so they rescued Basil from certain death in the pound.  Of course, I had to foot the bill!  From day one, it was apparent Basil had only two goals in life - to eat all the food he could find, and to escape from prison, i.e. my back yard with the chain link fence secluded by fifteen foot Arbor Vitae.  He loved the chase, and could only be bribed back into my car with an expensive cut of meat, like sirloin steak.  Basil lived with with us about two months.  The last time I saw him he was headed east through the woods, aiming for the golf course.  I waved, wished him well, and returned home to enjoy a nice supper of fillet Mignon,  small baked potato, and salad with a nice red wine.  I think I even toasted the little half bast - er, Basset!

The other Beagle I knew was a purebred named Hank, who liked three things - his chow, hunting with his daddy, Jerry, and escaping his nice chain link dog run to annoy the daylights out of all the neighborhood cats and my granddogger, Xoxchipili.  For some unknown impulse, Xoxchi had an unreasoning hatred of Beagles.  Every one he saw, he wanted to fight.  Since he only weighed five and a half pounds, I thought he had a serious weight disadvantage, but he didn't see it that way. Neither did Hank, a big, friendly doofus who just wanted to play. 

Once Xoxchi stayed with me while his mommy took a two week trip to California with a friend. One sunny afternoon Xoxchi  and I had lunch on the patio. I was editing Ghost Walk and Xoxchi was sunning himself in the cool October air.  I had Xoxchi's leash looped on one of those cast iron hooks used to hold a bird feeder in the garden.   Sure enough, here comes Hank, trotting down the driveway, his floppy tongue hanging out of his mouth, dripping drool as he looked for a playmate.  Xoxchi lunged after Hank so hard and fast that when he reached the end of  his leash, he took a couple of low, swinging arcs through the air before I rescued him.  Envisioning having to explain to my daughter how her dog hanged himself, I called Jerry to come pick up Hank, and only took Xoxchi out on a leash for bathroom duties.  That brings us to the story of how I humiliated him.

Once, he was staying with me in weather that was cold, wet, rainy, and snowy.  Bred for southern climes, aye Chihuahua, he hated to perform his ablutions in rain or snow, so I bought him a fur lined parka.  Problem was, the only color they had in his size was pink.  What the heck, I thought, dogs are color blind.  He ducked his head when the cats walked by.  I swear, they were snickering.  Day after day, he was reluctantly coaxed into the back yard.  Then one night we had "sneet," a mixture of freezing rain and snow.  He decided that "cross-dressing" wasn't such a bad deal, and gratefully, if not proudly wore his pink parka!  

Xoxchipili

(Aztec for "God of the Volcanoes."

It fit - he thought he was hot stuff!)

Settling down for a cuppa and a biscuit.

I did eventually get my purebred Basset Hound.  His name was Sir Bernard Kensington Paddington, but that's a story for another day, perhaps tomorrow.

Wow! I can't believe I haven't posted since just after Thanksgiving!  Yes I can.  Between editing my soon-to-be-published first novel, Ghost Walk, and rupturing a disk four days before Christmas, I can believe it.

Healing progresses rapidly, and I expect to be in physical therapy soon and swimming all spring, summer, and fall.

My daughter and I recently expanded our tiny family.  In addition to our King Charles Spaniel, Freckleface, adopted last October, we've adopted a senior citizen. Sunday a lady named Gizmo came to live with us.  Freckles is a military gentleman who likes to play dress-up. Gizmo is a part Yorkie/Papilon/Chihuahua. 94 in "doggie years," Giz likes her naps and her chow.  She is blind in one eye and can hardly see out of the other (cataracts), a bit hard of hearing, and likes having things her own way.  I'm still the Alpha bitch in this house, but Giz pretty much has the "life of Riley."  Her former owner passed away, and the elderly woman's son gave her two days to find a home.  Kristin and I couldn't resist her.  Photos below:

Gizmo

Sir Freckles