By now you probably know that we have a dog, a Beagle named Bo. He has lived longer than we ever expected--he's about 119 in dog years. He doesn't hear very well, and we're noticing that his sight isn't the best. He doesn't get as excited as he used to, and he sleeps a lot. I have expressed on this blog before how this little tri-colored pup has burrowed into my heart, which is an amazing thing to me. When we bought him for our four-year-old son almost 17 years ago, I simply tolerated him and was pretty proud of my aloof attitude about it all. But I quickly learned that dogs are called man's best friend for a reason. And I'm pretty stuck on Bo.
Though he is old and slow, Bo still clings to his bark. I remember the first time I heard him bark so many years ago. I flashed Bob a look and asked, "What's that? Does he have something stuck in his throat?" I was told that no, he's a hound, and that's the noise hounds make. Well, he still sounds like a hound, but he's quieter and he doesn't give it the effort he used to. Which leads me to the purpose of all of this.
One evening several weeks ago, at about 9:00 pm, Bo began to bark. I have to tell you that barking is a process with him these days. He starts out with little short under-his-breath "woofs", warning us that the next one just might be for real. He reminds me of an old car that has to warm up before taking to the road at full throttle. On this particular night, I heard the pre-barking grunts, but didn't think much of it, other than it was a little late. Both Bob and I ignored him. We thought that whatever was bothering him would go away momentarily. It didn't. Soon came the full-blown bark, every five seconds or so. Bob and I looked at each other, a little mystified.
Suddenly, I was having flashbacks. Flashbacks of babies and toddlers who didn't want to go to bed. I had hopped through C. S. Lewis' magic wardrobe and had found myself in Mommy mode. "Bob," I ventured, trying not to sound totally out of my mind, "Maybe he just needs to be told it's time for bed. Why don't you go out and talk to him?" Bob gave me the incredulous look I expected, but like the good husband he is, he did as I suggested and walked out to the back yard. When he returned, I asked him what had happened. He said that Bo was already in his dog run, standing up, watching the house. He saw Bob coming, but he didn't move. "Did you talk to him?" I asked. "Yes," answered Daddy Dog. "I talked to him." We didn't hear anything from Bo for the rest of the night.
We now have a new evening routine. Every night, at 9:02, 9:04, or sometimes 9:08, Bo begins his goodnight bark. And Bob wanders outside and tells him everything is ok, it's time to go to bed, and he should go to sleep now. Bo studies Bob's face, then turns toward his doghouse, goes inside it, and lies down. And he is quiet until morning.
Yep, Bo continues to let us know he's part of our family, and as long as he doesn't start demanding a two o'clock a.m. feeding, I think we'll keep him.
