Time was when the pet pooch occupied all our lives, ripping up cushions, stealing biscuits, yanking the dining table cloth to annihilate dinner services, chewing up blood pressure medicines, barking at shadows, sneaking up the stairs to run wild on the terrace. He was anxiety-prone too, curling up in suitcases taken down to pack clothes by whoever at home happened to be travelling. He demanded affection from visitors, so friendly that he appeared fierce. Friends requested he be reined in when they came for dinner, at which he'd howl so loud, the neighbours would petition for him to be freed.
Beagles are darn cute; they're also intelligent, demanding and possessive. Ours was a looker, lean and athletic, and life in the household revolved around his shenanigans, which is hardly conducive in a home whose resident insists on singular attention. We squabbled over whose turn it was to walk him - it was always mine! - or bathe him, or feed him (when he hadn't already raided the fridge, and been sick after). Among the dog community outside the gates, the communal melting pot where other pets and strays fraternised, he made absolutely no friends: he didn't need to, he was top dog at home and made sure we all knew it.
When our retired cook fetched up on the pretext of a vacation, and lodged herself permanently in the kitchen - about which turf war with the other resident cook, another time - we knew the canine would be pampered within an inch of his life. She'd previously cared a former pet cat to chronic bowel syndrome, and nursed a pup to health, thereafter spending more time fretting over his meals than ours. Our dog was about to experience gourmet heaven. She fed him choice tidbits, surreptitiously when scolded for it; he no longed wolfed down his meals as soon as they were served, asking first to be fussed over; he'd sulk if there wasn't chicken or meat; he'd bark his head off if we didn't immediately minister to his requirements for elevenses - and twelveses, oneses, twoses, and, soon, every few minutes.
He put on weight rapidly, wheezing up and down the stairs, finding it increasingly difficult to jump on to beds. He stopped chasing the ball, no longer attacked pillows or chewed on shoes. He slept all through the night, and long and hard during the day. It no longer bothered him that the residents of the house packed and unpacked bags as they left and returned from their travels. A warm greeting meant a lazy wag of the tail while continuing to lie in his bed. He rarely barked, and couldn't be bothered to run about. "He's contented sa'ar," the cook explained.
Who's to stay what worked for the dog won't be medicine for the mistress? My wife, who has a tongue both sassy and busy - she hasn't allowed me a sideways word in months (we last spoke on her birthday in July) - likes to micromanage things in the casa. It no longer upsets the staff, though. Whenever she has an uncivil thing to say, which used to be often, they serve her a treat from the kitchen - a morsel of fish, a slice of pie. Her breakfast indulgence ranges from fluffy pancakes to crisp dosai. With her tea, or coffee, come chunks of home-made cake, or cheesy omelettes. "I think you're running to tub, old girl," I said to her the other day. "No more than your sister," she riposted rudely. Nothing a little treat, and some contentment, won't cure, darling.
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