Hounds Abound

Sir Thomas Moore once said "Whoever loveth me, loveth my hound". My wife loves the dogs, however,within the pecking order of our home I fall somewhere between the lizard and the fish in her eyes. Flip-flopping Sir Thomas, "She loveth my hounds, yet finds me annoyingth" It's easy to see why the hounds reside in the preferred spot of her heart; They are a appealing blend of comedy, chaos and catastrophe.

Belle, a black and tan coated Bassett Hound, is the senior dog of the group. Most of Belle's day is spent sleeping or being adored by our two male dogs. Belle must be the a pretty hot number in the hound world, as both Shiloh and Roscoe constantly vie for her attention. Shiloh enjoys chewing on Belle's ears (foreplay?) as if they were a raw hide bone, and Belle loves it. I feel almost embarrassed to watch. Roscoe is far more overt in his approach, choosing to deep throat French kiss Belle to the point of gagging her. His clumsy romantic attempts are often spurned by Belle, preferring the ear-work of her other admirer.

Although he had been "fixed" years ago, Shiloh's libido has not shown any signs of slowing. Stricken by Diabetes when he was a pup and nearly blind, Shiloh dashes around the yard and house without bumping into a thing. This bat like sonar is remarkable! Picture Ray Charles dashing around a football field like Barry Sanders and never absorbing a single blow. Shiloh could be a seeing eye for a seeing eye dog. This is not to say that Shiloh is void of vision issues. Often is the time when Shiloh's failing vision will place him in a difficult situation. Lately Shiloh has been mistaking Roscoe (our male Bassett) for Belle (our female Basset), much to Roscoe's chagrin. Shiloh will mount the unsuspecting Roscoe, sometimes from the rear, sometimes from the front, and always when we have visitors. This "Brokeback Bassett" moment normally results in a furious dog-on-dog teeth gnashing melee.

In the Southern vernacular Roscoe is "dumb as a bag of hammers". In the South it is permissible to say something derogatory about someone ("Gee, that baby must have gotten wacked by the ugly stick"), as long as you add the sympathetic tag line "Bless his heart". So when I say that Roscoe is dumber than a bag of cat-eyed marbles, I mean it with the utmost affection, bless his heart. Chronicled in an earlier blog, Roscoe is an iron-stomached hound that has eaten everything from a bowl full of potpourri to a a set of mini-blinds. When Roscoe charges through the house, the entire edifice shakes like a 6.8 Frisco quake. Some people think of Bassett Hounds as small dogs, but they are actually big dogs without the benefit of legs. They are, essentially, a furry ottoman with floppy ears.

Finally, there is Mya the puppy Coonhound. This is the most nervous dog I have ever seen. If she hears a loud noise, Mya dashes through the house, tail tucked, leaving a trail of pee in her wake. When my son plays his drums she darts around like a hell bet squirrel crossing the Major Deegan. She is in love with Roscoe, adding another side to the romantic triangle of hounds. Mya is either chasing Roscoe or she is in a coma-like slumber, no in-between. Her dog wrestling tactics are really quite advanced for a 14 week old. Last week she climbed up on the couch and launched herself down upon poor defenseless sleeping Roscoe. She flew through the air like former WWF star Jimmmy "Superfly" Snuka, a Samoan giant known for his top rope plunges. Roscoe never saw it coming, landing on the head of her would be lover. Fortunately, Roscoe's noggin is as thick as Lincoln's bust on Mount Rushmore (bless his heart) and no permanent damage was done.

When I pass, I would like to return to this world as a hound dog. Other than warding off the prison yard advances of a blind diabetic Beagle, I think I would be happy. I'm not very smart, but I think I can handle the job (bless my heart).