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.