To Pine Croft

Much of choir practice passed in a daze of more breathing exercises, where I became very aware of my shortfall howls.  I ran out of steam well before Dame Fanny and I noticed her extraordinary, if rather tremulous range.  I am told that she was a beautiful, resonant contralto soloist in her youth.  Brahms says that Uncle JS Bach was in love with her, but her mother encouraged marriage to  his rival, Felix Mendelssohn Beagle instead, because he was younger, wealthy and had artistic leanings.  She discouraged Uncle JS, who was a rough diamond and had knocked about a bit.  Brahms says that after that, Uncle JS gave himself completely to fearless Rootling as a way of getting over a broken heart.

At 2.30 pm, I made my way over to Dame Fanny's residence of Pine Croft for three o'clock.  I left loads of time because I didn't want to arrive breathless.  Already, I am becoming aware of the effects of exercise on my voice.  I arrived at the iron gate.  It was open, but I felt awkward about entering without knocking.  I looked for a bell.  Instead, I found a laminated sign instructing, 'New arrivals, please howl in A Minor.'  Whilst reading, I felt my hackles rise and realised that I was not alone.  I sniffed:  I could smell Wharfedale (Bradford end).  I turned and through the gatehouse door could see a white whiskered beagle dozing in front of the grate.  I was disconcerted.  Should I howl?  Was it his turn?  In Beagle culture we venerate old age, so it would be unthinkable for me to howl first.

I coughed politely. No reaction.  I coughed a little louder.  His corrugated lips continued to flutter and his feet twitched spasmodically.  This was no nap and Beagle etiquette forbids approaching the unconscious elderly without due warning.  What to do?  'Swing on the gate lad!' boomed a familiar voice.
'Uncle JS - is it you?'
'Non-other. Now do as I say - we haven't got all day - in fact you're very nearly late - for a very important date!  Gate! Now! Swing!'  I powered to the gate and threw myself onto the rungs. It moved surprisingly easily and emitted the most  delectable, sustained squeak.  It did the trick!

White whiskers started and juddered to consciousness.  He fluttered his jowls and squinted at me.  'Now, young 'un, what di' thee want?'
'Well, I ...'
I was rudely interrupted. 'What's the good of a well without a bucket?  Come on young 'un - spit it out!'
'Well, '
'You've done it again!  Now, think before you speak - no welling!'  I was beginning to feel like the White Rabbit, trapped and wasting time with this old codger.  'Bartok!' boomed Uncle JS, 'pay attention and mind your manners - you are late!'

I gathered my thoughts. 'My name is Bartok. I have come for a singing lesson with Dame Fanny and I must howl - I didn't want to jump the queue sir - in case it was your turn?'
'Nay lad, I've had my turn.'
'Oh!' I said. 'Why haven't you been admitted?'
'Because, young 'un, I haven't hit A minor yet.'
'Yet?' I asked. 'How long have you been trying?'
'Years - I was like you when I started.  I don't mind though - I landed this job as gatekeeper - I keep Miss Fanny safe.'
'Miss Fanny?'
'She says that I'm her knight protector and I remind her of when she was a maiden beagle.'  He paused and peered between droopy lids, 'I,' he emphasised, 'am the only person who is allowed to call her Miss.  And you must address her as Ma'am, or  Madame - you may not use her name until you are given permission - respect Bartok!'
'And how do I address you sir?'
'Well done Bartok,' boomed Uncle JS.
'I am Sylveste.'
'But you're not French?'
'No - Bradford - and you're not Hungarian.'
'Ah! Yes, of course.  Er, should I howl now?'
'Aye - you get three tries and then you'll have to come back tomorrow.'
'But I have a lesson - I'll be late!'
'Best hit it first time then.'

I can tell you, by the third attempt, I was sweating.  How would I be able to face Brahms if I couldn't even gain admittance?  'Remember the gate Bartok,' urged Uncle JS, 'howl the squeak.'  I concentrated, imagined myself swinging on the gate and howled.  A bell jangled in the gatehouse. 'You can go up to the house Bartok.  Well done lad.'

I've never had a singing lesson, apart from when I was very young and in the Cub Beagles.  Madame is a legend amongst singing teachers.  Brahms says she can trace her singing lineage back to the magnificent Maria Callas Beagle.  As I padded up the gravel drive, I nipped myself - I really didn't know why she wanted to teach me, but I felt very lucky to be here.

On being good

I really do want to be a better Beagle and I am truly sorry for the impact of my reckless behaviour on Brahms, but this morning I would rather have missed breakfast than go howling.  It is my usual morning routine to watch Brahms prepare for choir, whilst I doze, but today I had to take part in the preparations.  'First we stretch the spine and rib cage - this is to help with breathing,' instructed Brahms.  I completed the stretches to his satisfaction and then followed vocal exercises.  It appears that I have much to learn about controlling my diaphragm, in order to produce the lengthy howls and whistles required in Beagle Song.  Brahms says I sound more like a terrier-rapper than a well modulated growler.  Anyway, he was pleased with my efforts, although I did overhear Auntie Gill say, 'Is Bartok choking?'  It is clear she has no ear for Beagle Song.

I can't say that I was looking forward to joining the choir. It lived up to my most hideous expectations - it's full of Dames and wrinkly Grand Dames.  I mean, who wants to sit next to Grand Dame Fanny Mendelssohn, no matter how steeped she is in Beagle Song, when Rudmilla (divine, blonde, Cleopatra-eyed soprano, Serbian Beagle - you should hear her whistles - Great Beagle! She inspires me to rootle hares!) - sits  the back row.  'Brahms dear, leave your brother with me!' quavered an imperious voice.  To my dismay, I found myself stuck centre front row with Dame Fanny.  Gloom. Brahms was ecstatic.  'Bartok,' he whispered, 'it's a great honour!  Do not misbehave.'

'Let me look at you Bartok,' commanded Dame Fanny.  I felt as if I was being dissected as her bloodshot eyes roved over me.  'I knew your Uncle JS, you know,' she pronounced. 'you have his nose - he wasn't much of a howler either.  Let me hear you.'
'Now?' I quivered.
'Yes of course now.  Come along.  Sit up straight, relax the shoulders.'  I did my best.  'No dear, you're hunching - too tense.  Look at your paws - even your toes are rigid.  This won't do at all. Now breathe in and howl!'  Truly, I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.  I wished that Rudmilla wasn't there to witness my humiliation.  'Come along Bartok!' urged Dame Fanny, 'we haven't all day.  What is the matter?'
'I'm sorry Dame Fanny,' I replied, trying to control my front legs, which were shaking with a will of their own, 'I'm not used to this - I'm nervous.'
'Nerves, Bartok, are most unattractive.  You either want to sing, or you don't.  You are here in a choir, so sing or go home.'  There was no escape.

Here's hoping, I thought.  Great Beagle! I prayed and let rip my best howl through my parched throat.  Dame Fanny listened with head down and great wrinkles shrouding her eyes.  She nodded, but it was some time before she raised her head and the wrinkles readjusted. She smiled at me!  'I can hear what you are trying to do Bartok,' she said kindly. 'Beagles come to me for lessons and they say, "Dame Fanny, I just want to sing for fun, not be too serious about it." '  She paused and fixed me in a tractor beam gaze before continuing, 'I have no time for that.  Howling is all about technique.  Without technique, you cannot bring out what is within you or the song - and you Bartok, have it within you.  We will start this afternoon.'

Well, I was gob-smacked.  No one has ever told me that I have 'it' within me.  For once I felt important and special.  I'm not sure what the 'it' is, but Grand Dame Fanny knows about these things.

I think maybe I have just experienced, 'feeling good.'  I think I like it.  And, I'm looking forward to my lesson with Dame Fanny.  Brahms says she doesn't waste her time on Beagles who don't have 'it'.

Atonement

I have been doing a lot of thinking since my near death experience. I have also been having nightmares.  You can guess - I'm dangling from that branch, suffering from hypothermia and I know that I must stay awake, but I can't and the Grim Beagle is coming, sniffing for me in long, snivelling snorts that  creep ever closer.  Uncle JS does not show up. I am paralysed.  I can feel GB's cold breath as he whispers, 'Bartok ... Bartok ... where are you?  I have bones for you - juicy ham bones - and knuckle bones.  There's no need to be frightened,' he tempts, 'you'll be safe with me.  All your pain will stop if you come with me.'  My resistance weakens and I whimper.  He homes in on the sound and just as his bony, shrivelled snout pushes through the hawthorn, I jerk awake in terror, which wakens Brahms too.

Brahms is being very kind to me, even though I almost cost him his voice.  So, I am trying to turn over a new leaf.  Brahms says that I need to get in touch with my Beagle roots.  He says that at times, I am too much of an individual and that I should tune into my Pack-side, which in his opinion, is under-developed. He has recommended that I meditate on the Second Precept of Beagle, 'Together we are strong,'  during morning relaxation and take up singing.  'You'll never be a cantor, Bartok,' he said to me, 'you've done too much shouting, but with discipline, you will make a most satisfactory growler.'  I confess, I was less than enamoured by the prospect and the old Bartok had an overwhelming desire to give him a good humping, but I restrained the demon and agreed to go along to early morning howl practice. 'Because, Bartok', pronounced Brahms, 'Beagle Song is about individuals singing the One Song for the One Pack for the Good of All - the Third Precept of Beagle.'  I am being saved!  So why do I want to be really naughty? I think it's because being good is boring.

I am also working on improving my behaviour on walkies, because I had, during my AWOL, given Auntie Gill something called a 'severe turn', which makes her peculiar.  From my observations, her symptoms included restlessness, sighing, muttering and aimless indoor walking.  I find it disturbing to watch, so it must be awful to have to do it.  Anyway, I am resolved to be nice to old starchy drawers from now on.