Purpose or Work

Auntie Gill is behaving oddly, even for a human.  She is doing something called 'serious practice' on a piano. She puts us in the cage while this is going on, because she says we can't be trusted.  To do what?  I wonder.

I am coming to understand that in order to be trusted, I have to do the obedience and discipline things a lot.  I wouldn't mind if I felt that there was any degree of compromise from Auntie Gill, but I don't see her, or any of her friends practising what they preach.  She doesn't 'sit and stay', she doesn't 'be quiet' and she certainly doesn't do 'poison, paid for!' (Unless it is for a really big treat - biscuits don't work - but new shoes do.)  In fact, more and more I am beginning to feel cross that I have to do this stuff.  Humans expect me to, but it is a perfect example of 'do as I say, but not as I do'.

It's not surprising that Humans are not very good at discipline, but it's like I said at the beginning of my diary, this is because discipline is all about doing what you don't want to do, when you don't want to do it.  It's bound to fail isn't it?  Beagles don't work like this.

After studying Beagle culture, Alexandre Dumas was inspired to adopt our First Precept of Beaglehood, 'All for one and one for all!' for his musketeers.  We know that we can't survive on our own, so each beagles' talents and skills are placed in the service of our Pack brothers and sisters.  My talent, as you know, is fearless rootling; Brahms is a Chase Leader; my mother Berlioza Beagle, like all beagle mothers is a Mother of the Pack;  Great Great Grandma Bach Beagle was honoured as Grand Dame of Pack Mothers for her outstanding contribution to post-natal care.

We are a very tight-knit group and because there aren't that many of us, we need all hands on deck, so to speak.  It is also a fact that we like our Purpose in life, which is to eat and the means is by Rootling and Chasing, which all beagles love to do.  I think this is perhaps where humans have gone wrong.  Their purpose also, is to eat, but they achieve this through Work and I don't think they like doing this much.

Happy in my Purpose

I sincerely believe that they would all be happier if they took up rootling and chasing, then they would not get fat or smoke, because they would have to run fast.  The First Commandment of the Pack is, 'First come, first served'.  It certainly keeps us on our toes!

Joy and Rapture

The Nidd Gorge: rootling heaven

What a relief to go for a civilised walk in proper beagle country.  You can keep beaches: what they have in space, they lack in interest.  To me, a beach is akin to a one scented perfume.  What's the point?  I imagine that beaches appeal to clean freaks.

Auntie Gill is a clean freak and so are the daddies.  Their lives are consumed with banishing human smells and drenching themselves in artificial ones.  They should be careful about what or who they might attract. Being able to scent is a very good way of sussing someone out.  It's no good trying to lie to a beagle about what you like to eat.

I know the signs when this purging of odours will happen.  Auntie Gill screws her nose up in distaste and then directs a baleful gaze in our direction.  'I smell of dog,' she announces, 'and so does this kitchen!'  I suppose I should be offended, but I am more puzzled and amused.  I mean, why wouldn't she smell of dog?  We lick her a lot and try to sit on her and we smell of human! (despite all the scent concealers she wears, it's still there - just! It's only because I'm a beagle that I can detect it.)

Anyway, then she rampages through the house with the vacuum cleaner and chemicals, before going for a shower.  She emerges and says, ' I feel clean now!'  She smells of chemicals.  We did like the body butter she used, but we were in trouble when we tried to lick it off, so she stopped using it.

In beagle culture, it is a great honour to carry the scent of another beagle.  It means that they are Brothers-in-Scent and from that day onwards, will always be able to find each other.  It would be no use waiting for Auntie Gill to sniff me out, if I was in trouble.  She couldn't smell a pork pie in her own fridge .  Of course, I will always be able to find her.  I prefer odour-interest.

Thank heavens we're home

Well, Wales was an experience, but I don't think beach holidays are for me.  No doubt I will have to suffer one again, just to make sure. We endured the hideously long journey home through the constant deluge, which only stopped when we reached our beloved Yorkshire.  I always feel I'm home when I cruise down Harewood Bank, smell the hares, see the three fields and sniff the sawdust scent from saw mill on the bridge.

It was lovely to see the daddies, but unfortunately, because of hideous journey they had to go out almost as soon as we arrived.  So Auntie Gill took us to her house.  It was very disappointing to be denied unconditional love and indulgences and have to stay with old Starchy Drawers for a few more hours.

I took it all in my stride, confident that I would no doubt find the opportunity to express my displeasure.  We were frog-marched home for ten o'clock and STILL had to wait for the daddies.  I can tell you, I was incandescent.  I was somewhat mollified by their rapturous greetings, copious treats and lots of jumping up, which old Starchy Drawers doesn't like.  She shouldn't wear tights and skirts.

Brahms demonstrating the 'good boy' sit to Auntie Sophie

To say that we had (supposedly) been missed by the daddies, as far as I'm concerned, on Saturday morning, they did not devote sufficient one to one attention or treats to make up for last night.  I gave them plenty of opportunity to spoil me: unrequested 'good boy' sits; adoring looks; not jumping up (they didn't even notice).  Both daddies were doing the 'work thing'.  They are not supposed to do this at home. So I was bored.  I had to entertain myself.  What am I supposed to do?  

Well first of all, having been subject to scent deprivation in Wales, I could not resist the waste bins: the land-fill one is the most satisfying for sniffs; recycling is generally good for chewing.  Plastic bottles work for me.  Daddy Justin was exasperated with my behaviour and resorted to 'the Corrector', which sprays water.  Starchy Drawers has one too.  I don't like it.

Additionally, thanks to car-lag from Wales, I was having trouble sleeping.  I tossed and turned on Sunday night.  Brahms was snort-whistle and neither use nor ornament, so I had no option but to do my relaxation chewing exercises.  Given that I was in a sensory deprived prison cage, the only way to relieve my insomnia was to chew my cushion.  As the fluffy stuffing expanded into floaty clouds and the velvet textured fabric ripped with satisfying ease, I felt my tension ebb and I drifted off.  I woke to a nightmare of ranting, red daddies. Apparently this was the wrong thing to do. I tried to include Brahms in the event, but I had been rumbled by the clumps of polyester puff stuck to my nose. Was it worth it?  Undoubtedly.

Rhossili Bay

Well, this looks promising, I decided taking a gander at Rhossili Bay from the cliff top.  Once again, Auntie Gill insisted on the lead during the walk down. She is impatient when we want to rootle and tugs us, usually at the most interesting sniff. However, feeling somewhat reassured about beach prospects, we cooperated with her.  I quelled my frustration and did an unasked for 'good boy' sit to keep her sweet.  The nearer we came to the beach, the air became increasingly scent free.

'Smell the air boys!'  Auntie Gill was off again.  I paid no attention this time, it was as bland as yesterday's and boring.  I had also been bored on the walk down, when Auntie Gill had spotted some hairy lichen and gave us a lecture on how it only grows in clean air.  Humans seem to think that air with no smell is clean.  They like it.  To us, air without smells is about as interesting as a song on one note.

If you flattened my scenting sensor area, it is 60 inches square.  Humans have a puny one square inch.  The research says that their sense of smell is better than the puny area would suggest.  This is because they have a BIG brain.  I beg to differ with the research,  Their sense of smell is crap, (in spite of the BIG brain).  In any case, their noses are too short and not at all wet, except when they have a cold, when their noses leak profusely and turn red.  Then they complain that they can't smell at all.  To be honest, given their smell is so feeble, I'm surprised they even realise its gone.

Anyway, I did like the look of the vastness of the beach. Right now, I was itching to run more than I needed to sniff.  The beach felt squidgey-gritty between the toes.  'I'm not letting you off the lead until we're a long way from the cliffs,' announced Auntie Gill. After hours, she found a spot she liked and uttered the magic words, 'Off you go!'  Bliss!  She insisted on taking us down to the sea.  Why would she think we would like it?  We are beagles, not seals!

It took an hour to walk the length of the beach.  We did a bit of rootling, but the sea smell is not appetising and tastes gritty.  There was nothing to chase except for a few gulls and they were no fun, compared to rabbits. My friend Alyssia (stunning black pointer) would have loved it though.

Rootling

We only met one other dog: a stuck up Jack Russell called Frank. He had a perfect stick, which he wouldn't share.  He ignored our friendly overtures, stuck his nose in the air and kept his gnashers clamped on the stick.  I don't see how you can have fun like that.  Perhaps it was more of a fashion statement, 'I've got a stunning stick, so' ... Don't mess with me?  Admire me?

The next best thing about the beach were the sand dunes at the end, which held notes of rabbit, but Auntie Gill became hysterical when she couldn't see us and we didn't get far.  She snared us with treats and marched us back to the sea.  The rest of the walk was war.  We would run to the cliffs, wait for her to become hysterical, rush back for treats and then head cliff-wards again.  It was good fun. Auntie Gill was exhausted, but she has only herself to blame.  She should have just let us climb the cliffs.

Sea Air

Tuesday dawned blustery with sunny intervals between showers.  After breakfast, while Auntie Gill prepared for the beach expedition, Brahms and I explored our new surroundings and I found a way to escape.  Goody Two Shoes Brahms wouldn't come with me and barked just as I was trotting past the gate, alerting Auntie Gill, who spotted me from the farmhouse door.  I've never seen her move so fast.  Bugger! I thought to myself. I was going to be for it, so I decided to keep on to the end of the road and check out the village.

I allowed myself to be caught at the litter bin by the bus stop, whose scents were a mine of information.  I discerned that two West Highland Whites were in the vicinity and a Doberman had passed by recently.  Auntie Gill thundered down the road looking red and agitated.  She tried various tactics: a very stern 'Come here Bartok!' and when that didn't work, she tried wheedling and bribing me with treats.  I allowed her to grab my collar and submitted meekly whilst enduring the reprimands.  She locked me in the cage when we got back and I wasn't allowed out until it was time for walkies.  By then she had discovered my escape route, blocked it off with a hefty metal barrier and looked smug about it.

It takes Auntie Gill ages to get ready and she is always forgetting things, but there is no mistaking the moment to go, because she puts her bag, with the red bone poop bag dispenser (I wish she wouldn't display it so publicly.) across her shoulder and beagles are off.  I submit to the harness with dignity, although when she's not looking I'm quietly gnawing away at one of the straps and one day ....

'No!' she groaned on opening the door to rain.  I can't say I was thrilled, but we were determined to see the sea, so we dragged her gate-wards before she could bottle out.  Then we waited a ridiculous time at the road-side for no cars. We know this because we can hear better, but we have still have to wait while she looks.  She doesn't trust us, that's apparent.

Despite my best efforts to avoid it, we crossed by the litter bin and I received yet another reprimand for my earlier misdemeanour.  Auntie Gill really is like a beagle with a bone; she won't let go!  I have learned that the best way to deal with this is to perform a 'good boy' sit, gaze at her adoringly and twitch my ears, before drooping with shame.  She immediately forgives me, makes a fuss and says she doesn't like getting cross with me.  I droop a little longer, just to convince her of my sincerity and then slowly lift my eyes to meet hers.  If she is still stone-like, I emit a few bars from the Song of Despair and she cracks every time.


At last we were heading down a divinely sniffy track that reeked of sheep, rabbits, horses and Farmer Jones's wellies.  Neat wire  fencing kept the sheep confined and despite my best rootling I could detect no way in. We had to stay on the lead, but the excitement was unbearable.  Auntie Gill was urging calm and patience, but how do you react to delay?  (Auntie Gill becomes very impatient and agitated - you should have heard her in the car on the way here.)  However, we rootled the best we could, looking forward to freedom at the last gate.

The big shiny thing

'Look Boys!  There's the sea!' Auntie Gill was transfixed by a big shiny thing in the distance.  'Smell the air Boys!  It's so clean!'  Noses aloft, we sniffed.  I snorted, inhaled and exhaled vigorously.  'Smell the sea air Boys!' There was that pervading smell again.  So this is the scent of sea, I thought.  Dull, dull, dull!  There were few odours and not much I recognised, yet in contrast, scent heaven was oozing from beneath my feet. And there were sheep wandering free on the cliffs!  I wanted to Chase desperately.  Auntie Gill said, 'No Boys, I'm not letting you off the lead.  I can't trust you not to chase sheep!'

Gloom.  That was it.   We tried pleading, barking, whistling and as a last resort the Song of Anguish, but she turned deaf ears.  I know she was fed up too, because she was looking forward to a rest and looked saggy.  We walked the cliffs and then over the moors, where we observed horses running free!  It didn't seem fair.  The walk was hard work as we had to half drag Auntie Gill up hills.  We staggered back to the farmhouse.  I was pissed off that I hadn't been able to run fast.  Auntie Gill promises the beach tomorrow is great for running.  I hope it doesn't turn out to be as great as its view or smell.

Tomorrow we will see the sea

I can tell you that I have never experienced such trauma as that of human pack (I use the term loosely) behaviour when Chasing on the M1: so different to when we Chase.  I prefer our way, where we take account of everyone's strengths and weaknesses. We know that sticking one's radiator up a beagle's boot has messy consequences, so we don't do it.

The purpose of the M1 Chase was to reach another country called Wales. 'We're going on our holidays!' said Auntie Gill, 'And you'll be able to run on the beach and see the sea - you'll love it!' She paused dreamily, 'the landscape!  Mountains! Valleys!' and then she went into teacher mode, 'Different people live there - they're called Welsh ...'

At this point I switched off and while looking at her intelligently, was mentally trying pick out anything that might be of interest to Beagles.  I was most interested in the mountains and valleys, which would be rabbit country.  I have never heard of Beach Beagle Packs,  (My nearest Pack is the Airedale Beagles, dale being Yorkshire for valley.) so I'm not sure that beaches have much to offer a well-bred hound dog.  We'll see, I thought to myself.

Brahms and I are beginning to realise that when humans like something, they assume that you will too.  (Then, when you don't like it and indicate as much, they look at you in disbelief, convinced that you must be mistaken and subject you to it again!)  It is possible that we may share your opinion, but if we do, it is often for different reasons.  My daddies have paintings of landscapes because they like colours.  I see in black and white, so spending hours staring at a monochrome landscape that doesn't move at all (I don't mind cartoons), doesn't light my fire.  But, the scent of the landscape does and I can spend hours sniffing the different tones and textures of leaf litter, which hold the story of the forest: who has passed by recently and not so; male or female; what they've had for breakfast; where I might find dinner.

So I am quite happy walking in the landscape and Auntie Gill is too.  It would do her good to get her nose into some leaves and start to improve her pathetic sense of smell.  If she were a beagle, we would have had her to the olfactologist for smelling aids.  She really is a liability in her condition - so are the daddies.

After the M1, there were a lot of other roads and four hours later Auntie Gill announced, 'Boys, we're in Wales!'  Through the twilight and deluges, I could see sinister hills iced with thunderous clouds.  I was quite happy to be on the inside looking out.  It was another three hours before we arrived at the tip of the Gower peninsula, in the dark.

Auntie Gill needed help to stand up. She is not really compact enough for her car.  We took advantage of her difficulties and dashed off to inspect our new territory.  There was an odd, savoury scent that permeated everything.  So this is what makes a different country, we thought.

Tomorrow, we would see the sea.

A rite of passage

Bartok Short Ear

From now on, I am Bartok Short Ear.  I have had 2 cm removed from my right ear, sustaining my first scar, of which I am rather proud.  I have achieved status as a Rootler. Three of my uncles J.S, C.P.E and W.F (great-great-grandma Bach's side) were professional Rootlers.  J.S., otherwise known as Scar Face, is a Pack Hero and holds our highest honour (Freebeagle of the Pack), after his part in a life or death Chase, which is now a part of beagle-lore.

To appreciate the full magnificence of the tale, it really should be howled in four parts, but sadly, human's with their narrow range of hearing and fixation on limited harmonies, will never be able to appreciate it.  I feel sorry for them.  Anyway below is a precis of the 'Saga of Scar Face', which I have simplified for the hearing and scenting impaired.

The winter of 10-11 was a harsh one.  Food was scarce, the scents were frozen and too many unproductive Chases had depleted our energies.  The Pack was failing; pups were hungry; mothers were starving and the Beagle Song was unsung, replaced by a pitiful, whimpering hound chorus that wheezed of pain and despair.  The Chase was a stagger; the next would be the last.

A sub-pack of young Rootlers addressed the Council and suggested that a small Chase should follow up on the rumours of escaped rabbits at the village of Hothouses, further up the dale.  It was an enormous risk to Chase on rumour, but it was a case of Chase or die.  Only the youngest and fittest took part so that they would be free to speed.  The rabbits were Rootled and found, out of reach and cowering in a tangle of barbed wire.  It was J.S. that pushed through, gouging a vertical gash from ear to nose.  The Pack was saved and Uncle J.S had a fierce and quizzical look for the rest of his life, which frightened the puppies, until they learned that he was a big softy really.

I wish I had achieved my short ear through heroism.  Unfortunately it was because of a tick bite.  However, I hope that I have displayed behaviour that perhaps might be described as noble and courageous.  When it happened, I ignored the pain of the bite and stayed focused on Rootling.  I did not complain, even as the bite grew bigger and bigger and I began to lose my looks.  Worst of all, I have had to endure ignorant and intrusive comments from humans.  'What's that on his ear?'  a rude, hefty, pug owner asked Auntie Gill and having listened to the tale pontificated, 'Well, I've had experience of beagles - they're hard work!'

I really wanted to tell her to 'Piss off!' but I retained my dignity.  I can see why she is a pug owner.

Brahms setting the record straight

Bartok is in the wars again!  It's his ear this time; I'm sure he will report back to you in due course.  He is fit, well and has another satellite dish on his head, so I have seized the laptop to correct the image he has painted of me as an unsympathetic bully.

My daddies and Auntie Gill know that I am not a thug.  In fact I am frequently complimented on my calm, stoic temperament and artistic leanings.  It is no accident that I was named after the great romantic composer.  I have inherited his capacity for reflection, luscious melodies and controlled passion.  Bartok, on the other hand reflects his namesake's uncompromising, innovative, explosive passion and I have to say, at times, rather scratchy tunes. Living with spontaneity is not easy and I have been the butt of Bartok's impulsiveness for the whole of my short life.

Mostly we get on very well.  Me on the right.

Don't get me wrong, I love my brother to bits, but I do put up with a great deal of shit from him.  He failed to mention that when he is cone-less, he makes my life a misery.  He nicks my bones and I am frequently confused as to whether he wants to lick me, or hump me.  In fact, sometimes he is so over the top that I stay close to my humans for protection.

All I have done during the cone period is to give him a dose of his own medicine.  I'm hoping that he will understand how horrid it is, so he won't do it to me any more.  I have done my best to excuse his selfish behaviour.  I've let him have my bones and watched him sit with a pile of them between his paws and two stuffed in his mouth so that he is unable to chew, without dropping one.  It doesn't seem very fair to me.

In the wars

The daddies say that I am accident prone.  It is true that I seem to get myself into scrapes and brother Brahms does not, but this is because we have different talents and skills.  You need to understand that in the Pack, we all have specific roles.  I would like to think that if I was employed in the Pack, I would be a Rootler, like my father Berlioz.  The nearest equivalent in the human Army I think, is the Paras.   There are three qualifications for becoming a Rootler: an outstanding sense of smell, speed and fearlessness.  This is because it is the duty of a Rootler to pick up a scent as quickly as possible so that the Chase can begin in earnest; after all, no scent: no dinner.

The Rootlers work at the front of the Pack, sniffing for all they are worth and travelling at great speed, to detect the scent of a rabbit or hare.  Once we have achieved that, our role is done and the Runners then lead the Chase.  Brahms (like Uncle Brukner on Mother's side) would be one of these, with his superb speed and agility.  I am not so good at agility.  Auntie Gill gets irritated with me (especially when I'm wet and muddy) when, unlike Brahms, I won't jump into the boot of her car.  I'd like to see her do it after a two hour walk - she can barely stand up, which is because she only has two legs and has to work twice as hard to keep pace.

Although I'm not a professional in a Pack, I do like to keep my skills honed and so I use every opportunity on walkies to practice.  Last week, we were on one of my favourite trails along the Nidd Gorge and we met up with our friend Rocco (he is part retriever), who wants to train to be a beagle.  So, I set off rootling and Brahms and Rocco were ready to Run as soon as I gave them the signal.  (Unfortunately, both Brahms and I agree that Rocco will never make it to Pack standard, but there's no harm in him trying.  We don't like to mention that he is too tall and clumsy.)

Now, you will realise that effective, efficient Rootlers do not have time to look where we are going.  I had my nose welded to the ground, my floppy ears were dangling forward to channel the smells into my nasal cavities and I'm sniffing away like fury, when suddenly half the world turns black.  What to do?  I rushed back to Auntie Gill who recoiled in horror, because my left eye had turned green and she thought I had become demonic.  She and Rocco's mum studied my eye and decided upon the vets, because a huge piece of plant was wedged over my eye like a contact lens.  This is where two eyelids are not such a good idea, because the green stuff was stuck between them.


We set off back to the car, but even with only one eye I continued to rootle and enjoy myself.  Rocco lost interest and he and Brahms practised running and chasing. Auntie Gill lifted me into the car without even trying to make me jump in and we dashed to the vets.  I was not best pleased with the outcome.  I had to stay at the vets and have a procedure.  They drugged me - the vet called it sedation - I call it poisoning - took the plant stuff out and left me with a dilated pupil and a hangover.  But the worst thing was the cone, which I stubbornly refused to tolerate, until the nurse tied it on with string.


Two hours later, Auntie Gill collected me and brought me home.  She was very nice and gave me treats, pats and let me sit next to her on the sofa.  I'm sorry to say that Brahms was horrid.  He laughed at the cone, said I looked like a satellite dish and as soon as he realised that I couldn't nip him for his rudeness subjected me to indignities.  He stole all my bones and tried to hump me a great deal.  Auntie Gill was very cross with him for being so vulgar and unkind.

I was the victim of these torments for three days.  It was even worse when Auntie Gill's back was turned.  On top of that I had to stay on the lead when we went for walks.  Brahms was even mean then.  He would run off taunting, 'You can't catch me for a pocket full of treats!' And then run back and crash into my cone.  I won't forget.

Music

I've got a pink rubber bone - yipee eye-oh ...

You will realise, from our names that music runs in the family, in particular singing.  Choral singing plays a great part in our lives, in fact the life of the Pack depends on it and when we are in the Chase it focuses our thoughts and energy and keeps us together for the common good.

I have observed similar behaviour in many human activities.  For example, at football matches they chant (lacking, in my opinion, the subtleties of the beagle song and hound chorus), which in turn stimulates the strange phenomena of the Mexican Wave, where they stand up in turn and sit down, getting nowhere.  But humans seem to like it and appear very pleased with themselves when it's passed through.  It is also one of the rare occasions where, I have observed, the male of the species is willing to sing. Mostly, when asked to sing,  the males are in a condition called embarrassment.  When this happens, they turn red, wriggle about and generally look unappetising.

What eludes me about human vocalising (and they set much store by this), is their lack of empathy with other species who vocalise. Auntie Gill sings great choral works in a choir.  Daddy Paul is  immersed in Opera North, where the humans dress up and perform 'great works'.  My humans talk a lot about the importance of 'great art' and its civilising influence.  Hmph! They ought to  spend a week with a Beagle Pack before they talk such arrogant twaddle.  For Beagles, the song encompasses mind, body and spirit: life and death. It takes a sharp mind to find dinner, a fit body to chase it (and enjoy eating it) and strength of spirit to surmount the challenges of the Chase.  It is a little known fact, that the saying 'singing for your supper' is a beagle legacy.  Which takes me further into the influence of beagles and my hound brothers and sisters on western music.  Who do you think inspired Vivaldi's 'Winter'?  Look no further.  The Legendary Marvin Pontiac was moved to compose, 'I'm a Doggy' after listening to one of our choirs. Of course, our most profound, contemporary exponent of Hound Song, was undoubtedly Elvis, in his words, 'If you ain't never caught a rabbit, you ain't no friend of mine.'

I love my human family, but at times I could give them a kick up the backside for their narrow minded attitudes towards music from my culture.  Why is it that I have to learn their words: sit, stay, off, out, walkies (for god's sake) and they won't learn mine?  I have to listen to their interminable drivelling and droning for hours and when I dare to squeak (I am particularly good in the high registers), I am told to shut up!  It would seem that beagles should be seen and not heard. Well, I've got news for you - we sing to our hearts' content when the humans go out!

I Bartok Beagle

In the beginning - a year ago - I and my brother, Brahms Beagle lived with our daddies ALL the time.  Then something called 'work' kept taking them away.  I don't think this work thing can be very good for you, because the daddies go out on Monday looking like beagles (frisky, alert, cheeky and sometimes naughty) and come home on Friday looking like my great great granny Bach Beagle.  She lived to be a great age and became very droopy, more Basset hound-ish. The daddies look like this after the 'work' thing.

While they are at work, we go and stay with our dog-mother, Auntie Gill.  She can be hard work.  This is because she used to be a teacher and is into something called discipline, which as far as I can make out, means doing what you don't want to do, when you don't want to do it.  I can't understand this.  Why would you want to spend most of your time being miserable?  The only good thing about discipline that I can see, is treats and pats.

Auntie Gill also places great emphasis on obedience.  This is also like discipline.  I have learned to sit and stay when I don't want to; but I get a treat, which I do want.  I think humans call this politics.

So, when I'm out on a walk I will (mostly) come back when she calls,  I have also learned that if I'm feeling a bit peckish, then all I have to do is run back to her, preferably with ears flying and she will give me a treat and make a huge fuss.  She gets cross when I don't come back on demand.  The thing is,  when I've stayed away too long, I know I'm going to be in trouble, because humans do this thing called 'worrying'. This makes them very peculiar. so I may as well take my time.  Brahms needs to learn this too.