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It was a singularly unique moment in 2014 when, while driving back home to Montreal from New York city with my wife, I sent the following text to my brother-in-law Charles “Try luring him back with some cold cuts”.
My sweetheart and I were spending the weekend in NYC and had left our little beagle cherubs with her family. Surely a household of four would be enough to quell any beagle mischief. I mean surely. Right?
As most beagle provoked hysteria usually does, it began with an innocuous lapse in perimeter security. My father-in-law simply opened the front door to get a breath of fresh morning air. That is when our two little daring angels darted between his legs and out the front door like twin bolts of tri-colored lightning. Ace, the older and more cooperative of the two, immediately came back when my father-in-law called him. Buster on the other hand had his own proclivities to prioritize. He ran into the adjacent park and began what was to be a day-long escapade that would leave the neighborhood shaken and Buster well fed.
Whatever Buster was chasing had lead him into the park next door where he found more than enough visual and olfactory stimulation to keep him busy. The family naturally ran into the park after him. Little did they know that proximity did not equate to entrapment. Buster swiftly galloped from grassy plain to shady nook with the gentle ease of a gazelle on the plains of the Serengeti. He would occasionally stop to indulge his sniffer while the family chased from several dozen yards behind. For all illustrative purposes, Buster had become Barry Sanders and the family had become the hapless defense of the Indianapolis Colts.
This went on for hours. Much to Buster’s puckish delight no doubt. Neighbors joined in to no avail. My brother-in-law Charles, desperate to find a solution texted my wife and I. Our advice was to lure Buster to his would-be captors with some meat. After taking a moment to mentally parse a list of potential Buster bait, we settled on cold cuts. Charles, realizing that he did not have the necessary salty temptations on hand, contacted his girlfriend who was already in her car on her way to the park to join what had now grown into a posse of friends and neighbors. Given all of the commotion it is understandable if Charles’ instructions may have been a little frantic. And we may assume that they were, because when his girlfriend arrived instead of some manageably small slices of ham she emerged from her vehicle with a holiday-sized portion of the pigly meat.
Charles resolved to adapt and overcome. He grabbed the suckling lure and headed into the park. He slowly sidled up to his fleet-footed quarry. Although, what he quickly learned was that Buster was as nimble as he was quick. Buster would thrust his mousey beak towards the ham, snatch a nibble and be off again to his next point of interest. From there the plan’s fallout was inevitable. Charles sprinting after Buster with a large greasy ham in his outstretched hands, yelling “Eat this ham, you stupid dog”. Buster, perhaps out of both hunger and some distorted sense of obedience, obliged by stopping to quickly peck at the ham and then running off again before Charles could get a hold of him. Unfortunately, at this point Charles had become the Coyote to Buster’s roadrunner. Those gathered around who were not already gassed or infuriated could not help but enjoy the show.
Alas, a mere three hours into this affair, it was time for saner heads to prevail. My father-in-law, who had by now grown tired of Buster’s romp and the failed attempts of others to corral him, stepped into the fray. He marched into the park and with the type of old-school parental authority that is beyond contestation sternly told Buster “Enough” and to “Come here”. Buster knew that the jig was up. He submitted and sheepishly obeyed the commands that he had been given. At that moment, if my father-in-law had told Buster to ‘Jump’, Buster would no doubt have replied ‘Arf’. (Which is presumably Beagle jargon for ‘How high?’)
The fun was over and people could go back to their homes knowing that Buster was back home and that in the end sanity once again ruled the day. But Buster’s legacy had been cemented. The day’s shenanigans had left him forever branded as a ‘petit caca’; a role that he would relish and reprise many times. And as for Ace – who was the quintessential good boy right from the start – he was left wondering what uncle Charles was going to do with the rest of that ham.
