Brahms gave me the cold shoulder for two days. He slept at the far end of our cage and turned his back if I tried to make friends. I know he was cold; I was too. That made it difficult to sleep, but on top of that, when I did drift off, I was disturbed by strange whistling sounds from Brahms. He was awake all Christmas night. Every half hour, he would stretch and hum scales very softly. It seemed that his voice was back!
Well, as you know, Brahms's solo was a triumph and he has been asked to sing for the Grand Lodge of the Freebeagles for the Mid-Summer Fest! His performance stood out because his interpretation brought tears to the eyes of Grand Beagle Purcell, who in his youth had been a great exponent of the Beagle Song. 'No beagle,' he said, 'since the great howler Pavarotti himself, has used the whistle so eloquently.' He was very interested to know what had inspired Brahms. 'Well,' replied Brahms, 'it was my brother Bartok.' I withered under his gaze and wondered what was coming . 'If it wasn't for him,' Brahms went on, 'I wouldn't have tried to whistle the high notes - I would have howled them instead.' He paused and directed a furrowed brow in my direction. Here it comes, I thought. 'But Bartok made me think differently, when a sore throat shortened my register. The cloud, it would seem, turned out to have a silver lining.'
I'm glad we're friends again.
Saturday, 21 March 2015
Post trauma
I took a few days to recover from my ordeal. Brahms showed little sympathy for my plight; he was preoccupied with his Boxing Day solo. His singing teacher said his voice should have complete rest and he should not open his mouth for two days, otherwise he might get warts on his larynx. 'Impossible,' whispered Brahms.
'There's no alternative - if you want to sing at all,' came the reply.
Brahms went very still gave me a long, hard stare and with no warning, flew at me, knocked me over and pinned me down in a half Nelson. 'I'm fed up with you, Bartok Beagle!' he croaked, 'this is all your fault. You never think of anyone but yourself - and you never consider the consequences of your actions on others! This isn't the first time you've put us through the mangle - and you seem to think it's funny!'
I was taken aback. I've never seen him so angry - neither could I see that a few croaks here and there would be a problem. 'That's exactly it!' Hissed Brahms, 'You can't see that anything could be a problem for anyone else! I don't get in the way of your rootling, but you've got in the way of my singing and now, because of you, I can't!'
'Off!' commanded Auntie Gill and pulled Brahms away. He was overwrought and quivering with temper.
'I'm very sorry, Brahms. I didn't realise,' I said.
'That's just it - you never do! Don't come near me! I don't want to see you!' And he slunk off to the kitchen.
'That's not like Brahms,' commented Auntie Gill. 'I wonder what's the matter?'
'There's no alternative - if you want to sing at all,' came the reply.
Brahms went very still gave me a long, hard stare and with no warning, flew at me, knocked me over and pinned me down in a half Nelson. 'I'm fed up with you, Bartok Beagle!' he croaked, 'this is all your fault. You never think of anyone but yourself - and you never consider the consequences of your actions on others! This isn't the first time you've put us through the mangle - and you seem to think it's funny!'
I was taken aback. I've never seen him so angry - neither could I see that a few croaks here and there would be a problem. 'That's exactly it!' Hissed Brahms, 'You can't see that anything could be a problem for anyone else! I don't get in the way of your rootling, but you've got in the way of my singing and now, because of you, I can't!'
'Off!' commanded Auntie Gill and pulled Brahms away. He was overwrought and quivering with temper.
'I'm very sorry, Brahms. I didn't realise,' I said.
'That's just it - you never do! Don't come near me! I don't want to see you!' And he slunk off to the kitchen.
'That's not like Brahms,' commented Auntie Gill. 'I wonder what's the matter?'
Wednesday, 18 March 2015
AWOL
I wasn't going to own up about this, because I am ashamed. Why? Because I allowed pride in my ability as a fearless Rootler to override common sense and I ended up in a situation.
December 23rd, the earth glistened and crunched with a dusting of snow under a cobalt sky. I can tell you, I was sick of the Christmas thing, so it was a relief when Auntie Sophie took us on a walk. I decided en route that I was going to have an adventure and some fun with the humans. Brahms was up for it too.
To my delight, I knew that when we we set off from the Gardeners' Arms, we were in for the long route to Knaresborough along the Nidd Gorge. We rootled and chased and behaved impeccably, coming back when called (we are partial to cheese flavoured treats with Omega 3 fish oil) and not wandering too far, because the scents were not very enticing: they were cold and there's not much satisfaction in chasing yesterday's rabbits.
Anyway, as we rootled towards Knaresborough, the gorge becomes ever steeper and it was great fun chasing up nearly vertical cliffs and then hurtling down at speed. (This is where human's got the skiing idea from, because without aids, they can't hurtle anywhere.) There was an enticing aroma of sheep towards the top. Brahms could smell it too, so we decided to investigate. Auntie Sophie started calling and rattling the treat box, but we were impervious to such distractions, because the thrill of the Chase was upon us. I knew that just over the next hedge would be the sheep, but tantalisingly, one hedge led to another. Brahms lost interest and the treat box worked its magic. This is why he is not a Rootler.
I watched the capture of Brahms from on high. He is such a ninny at times. He still hasn't grasped that treats on the ground are a trap and that while he's busy scoffing, he will be snared. Right, I thought to myself, if that's the game, then I'm not playing and so I stayed at the top of the gorge. Auntie Sophie was becoming more and more hysterical and I maintained her levels of anxiety by popping over the parapet, now and again. It was funny watching her swing between being cross with me and wheedling and cajoling. I was only going to tease her a few more times, when disaster happened. Suddenly, I came to an abrupt dangle. Investigations revealed my harness was snagged in a tangle of spiky hawthorn.
I wriggled, thrashed and chewed. Auntie Sophie's voice faded down the gorge. Brahms was howling furiously, one minute singing of the anxiety and desolation of my loss and the next shouting what he was going to do to me when we got home. It wasn't very nice. Well, it wasn't my fault that I was stuck, was it? It could have happened to any dog. Well, any dog in tune with his spirit, that is.
The light faded, Auntie Gill had turned out to look. Lots of different voices were calling for me, but I was too exhausted to reply and my neck was cricked at an awkward angle as I chewed the hawthorn. I had tried gnawing the harness but having ended up in an even worse dangle, had abandoned that tactic. The hawthorn chewed dry and bitter. I was desperate for a drink. Night came, the voices ceased and I had been dangling for four hours. You've really done it this time Bartok, I said to myself as I froze into a doze.
'Come on lad!' commanded a resonant voice. I swam to consciousness and looked into the blackness. Nothing. 'Come on lad! This won't do!' The voice was in my head! I must be dreaming! 'No you're not,' boomed the voice, 'call yourself a Rootler? This is nowt of a fix lad! One last swing and one more chew! Now come on!' I recognised the voice! It was uncle JS! He'd come for me!
'Nay lad, I've come to get you out of this pickle and send you home. Now swing and then one last chew! There's no time for owt else!' One doesn't argue with Uncle JS Freebeagle. I was honoured that he was with me.
I gave my all and as I flung myself forward the harness snapped and I was free! 'Well done lad! Now get thysen across that field and you'll be grand!'
'Are you coming?' I asked.
'I'll be around until you're safe,' he replied, 'now concentrate on the job in hand - priorities lad!' Shivering, I dragged myself across frozen hillocks. The final fence came into sight and a small yellow light danced in the distance. 'Follow the light!' instructed Uncle JS.
I took a tumble down the bank and yelped in shock. The light stopped suddenly and a voice I didn't recognise called, 'Bartok! Bartok!' With my last reserves I limped towards the light and a tall figure loomed above me. I was sick with fear. Was it the Grim Beagle? 'Don't be so daft lad!' chivvied Uncle JS, 'It's the rescue party. You'll be champion now. Be brave!'
'Well!' said a kind voice. 'I think we have found the missing Beagle!' I was put on a lead and walked down the track. I recognised where I was! I had been dangling only five minutes away from the Gardeners' Arms. 'Yes,' said Paul (my rescuer), into his mobile, 'I have him. Come and collect one tired, hungry Beagle.'
Auntie Gill was very nice when she arrived. I think she was close to tears. I was too tired to even wag my tail, but I was very pleased to see her. I realised that Uncle JS had gone, but that was alright too.
Brahms was ecstatic on my return and gave me his bone, because he could see that I was not at all well. I felt better after a pilchard dinner and plenty to drink. The humans rushed around getting ready to go out to a party. 'We can go now,' said Auntie Gill, 'now that we know Bartie is safe.'
While they were out, Brahms passed through the feeling sorry for me stage and then began to feel sorry for himself. I had ruined his day, he complained. While I had been dangling at death's door, he had been marched up and down the gorge and told to howl for me. He was very cross because he had strained his fine voice and his paws were blistered. Then he took his bone back.
December 23rd, the earth glistened and crunched with a dusting of snow under a cobalt sky. I can tell you, I was sick of the Christmas thing, so it was a relief when Auntie Sophie took us on a walk. I decided en route that I was going to have an adventure and some fun with the humans. Brahms was up for it too.
To my delight, I knew that when we we set off from the Gardeners' Arms, we were in for the long route to Knaresborough along the Nidd Gorge. We rootled and chased and behaved impeccably, coming back when called (we are partial to cheese flavoured treats with Omega 3 fish oil) and not wandering too far, because the scents were not very enticing: they were cold and there's not much satisfaction in chasing yesterday's rabbits.
Anyway, as we rootled towards Knaresborough, the gorge becomes ever steeper and it was great fun chasing up nearly vertical cliffs and then hurtling down at speed. (This is where human's got the skiing idea from, because without aids, they can't hurtle anywhere.) There was an enticing aroma of sheep towards the top. Brahms could smell it too, so we decided to investigate. Auntie Sophie started calling and rattling the treat box, but we were impervious to such distractions, because the thrill of the Chase was upon us. I knew that just over the next hedge would be the sheep, but tantalisingly, one hedge led to another. Brahms lost interest and the treat box worked its magic. This is why he is not a Rootler.
I watched the capture of Brahms from on high. He is such a ninny at times. He still hasn't grasped that treats on the ground are a trap and that while he's busy scoffing, he will be snared. Right, I thought to myself, if that's the game, then I'm not playing and so I stayed at the top of the gorge. Auntie Sophie was becoming more and more hysterical and I maintained her levels of anxiety by popping over the parapet, now and again. It was funny watching her swing between being cross with me and wheedling and cajoling. I was only going to tease her a few more times, when disaster happened. Suddenly, I came to an abrupt dangle. Investigations revealed my harness was snagged in a tangle of spiky hawthorn.
I wriggled, thrashed and chewed. Auntie Sophie's voice faded down the gorge. Brahms was howling furiously, one minute singing of the anxiety and desolation of my loss and the next shouting what he was going to do to me when we got home. It wasn't very nice. Well, it wasn't my fault that I was stuck, was it? It could have happened to any dog. Well, any dog in tune with his spirit, that is.
The light faded, Auntie Gill had turned out to look. Lots of different voices were calling for me, but I was too exhausted to reply and my neck was cricked at an awkward angle as I chewed the hawthorn. I had tried gnawing the harness but having ended up in an even worse dangle, had abandoned that tactic. The hawthorn chewed dry and bitter. I was desperate for a drink. Night came, the voices ceased and I had been dangling for four hours. You've really done it this time Bartok, I said to myself as I froze into a doze.
'Come on lad!' commanded a resonant voice. I swam to consciousness and looked into the blackness. Nothing. 'Come on lad! This won't do!' The voice was in my head! I must be dreaming! 'No you're not,' boomed the voice, 'call yourself a Rootler? This is nowt of a fix lad! One last swing and one more chew! Now come on!' I recognised the voice! It was uncle JS! He'd come for me!
'Nay lad, I've come to get you out of this pickle and send you home. Now swing and then one last chew! There's no time for owt else!' One doesn't argue with Uncle JS Freebeagle. I was honoured that he was with me.
I gave my all and as I flung myself forward the harness snapped and I was free! 'Well done lad! Now get thysen across that field and you'll be grand!'
'Are you coming?' I asked.
'I'll be around until you're safe,' he replied, 'now concentrate on the job in hand - priorities lad!' Shivering, I dragged myself across frozen hillocks. The final fence came into sight and a small yellow light danced in the distance. 'Follow the light!' instructed Uncle JS.
I took a tumble down the bank and yelped in shock. The light stopped suddenly and a voice I didn't recognise called, 'Bartok! Bartok!' With my last reserves I limped towards the light and a tall figure loomed above me. I was sick with fear. Was it the Grim Beagle? 'Don't be so daft lad!' chivvied Uncle JS, 'It's the rescue party. You'll be champion now. Be brave!'
'Well!' said a kind voice. 'I think we have found the missing Beagle!' I was put on a lead and walked down the track. I recognised where I was! I had been dangling only five minutes away from the Gardeners' Arms. 'Yes,' said Paul (my rescuer), into his mobile, 'I have him. Come and collect one tired, hungry Beagle.'
Auntie Gill was very nice when she arrived. I think she was close to tears. I was too tired to even wag my tail, but I was very pleased to see her. I realised that Uncle JS had gone, but that was alright too.
Brahms was ecstatic on my return and gave me his bone, because he could see that I was not at all well. I felt better after a pilchard dinner and plenty to drink. The humans rushed around getting ready to go out to a party. 'We can go now,' said Auntie Gill, 'now that we know Bartie is safe.'While they were out, Brahms passed through the feeling sorry for me stage and then began to feel sorry for himself. I had ruined his day, he complained. While I had been dangling at death's door, he had been marched up and down the gorge and told to howl for me. He was very cross because he had strained his fine voice and his paws were blistered. Then he took his bone back.
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