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.