by Pat Hamit
Ah, Facebook, the social media that enables the art of making friends from anywhere in the world without going through the hassle of actually meeting them. You can't imagine the wit and wisdom that is shared on facebook and yes, unfortunately, just the opposite is hard to imagine too. It is an excellent way to express your political and religious views only to be immediately "un-friended" by people you never really knew you were friends with in the first place, not to mention people your never knew – period. It truly is a brave new world out there, isn't it?
These days it seems as if everyone who wants a facebook page has one. Even the Bobster has his own facebook page.
What, your dog doesn't have his own facebook page?
What's up with that?
Bobby, while being extremely social, doesn't really give a hoot about the media aspect. Social is what Bob is all about. Ask the neighbors across the street how social Bob can be. He'll snoop through their garage and explore the kitchen if they left the door open. Without a hint of social grace, he'll help himself to some food inadvertently left on the kitchen table. It is like we have raised a college kid. How embarrassing!
I'm the one who thought the Bobmiester needed his own facebook page. For one thing, it is his little bit of social media not mine and that combination is all good for a lot of reasons.
Since starting on facebook we've discovered a treasure trove of Beagle stuff but nothing hit so close to home as the "Beagle Property Laws." Since the day this dog darkened our door we have suspected that certain Beagle rules existed. We just didn't know that what must be a frustrated Beagle owner actually took the time to write them down. In case you need to know the rules, here they are:
Beagle Property Laws
- If I like, it's mine.
- If it's in my mouth, it's mine.
(Just try to pry my little jaws apart, go ahead try.)
-If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.
- If I can take from you, it's mine.
- If it just looks like mine, it's mine.
- If I saw it first, it's mine.
- If it is edible it's mine
(That would be ANYTHING you can imagine that's edible and some things you can't possibly begin to imagine.)
- If I chew something up, all the pieces are mine.
(Just try to pick up a piece of rawhide bone or chew toy stuffing.)
- If I get tired of it, it's yours.
- If I want it back, it's mine.
Don't bother to commit these rules to memory as they are subject to change without notice. Violations of these rules, real or imagined, intended or inadvertent will be met with a growling reprimand. Everyone knows that ignorance of the law is no excuse.
That Hound Dog Nose
Having completed a Christmas shopping mission, That Girl, the granddaughter, has hidden Bob's gift in the top of the Pack Leader's closet. Normally this is not a problem but, in order to wrap the gift, she had taken the rawhide chew bones out of the heavy packaging they come in and replaced them in one of those flimsy sacks the discount stores are so fond of.
Later in the day I find Bob-a-reno whining at the closet doors and I don't know why. Something in the closet is making him crazy and he is determined to find the source. Opening the doors a crack allows him to squeeze in and investigate. You can hear him sniffing as his nose is scanning in an amazingly rapid search mode. Turning on the light allows me to see him diligently examine every possible source of the intriguing scent he's looking for. After each shoe box is eliminated, he moves deeper into the closet as the sniff, sniff, sniffing continues. Obviously, he is on a mission and is not to be deterred.
Now keep in mind during the holidays, the Pack Leader, my wife, considers her closet a sanctuary. She has the unusual ability to hide a tremendous amount of stuff in her safe haven and still maintain a neat and orderly appearance. She lacks a complete sense of humor when it comes to intruders in her gift haven. Me, I can't find the shirt I hung in my closet less than an hour ago. I'm pretty sure she has some kind of a personality disorder but that's beside the point.
This is why Bobby and I are both in trouble when the Pack Leader catches us in her closet. She doesn't want to hear any lame excuses about the dog's whining at the door and that is all I need to know in order to beat feet to the kitchen. Surely there is snack of some kind calling my name. But, it seems that the Hoover nosed Beagle can't take a hint as the sniff, sniff, sniffing continues. Yeah, that's a big mistake on his part.
"Bob! Get out! NOW!" She says in a voice that lets you know that she is indeed somebody's mother. All the while she is tugging him out of the closet with a finger through his collar and closes the doors with authority. Faced with a forced retreat, Bob can't resist getting in the last word which comes out like a combination of a frustrated growl and a self-pity whine. Yeah, he is either brave or stupid. I don't know which. My idea of getting the last word is to say, "Yes, Dear."
The Bobster finds me in the kitchen and we share a peanut butter sandwich as we both wrestle with the idea of being so abruptly banished from the treasure trove in the Pack Leader's closet. I'm telling Bobby that we could, if we wanted to, tell the world about how rudely we were just treated. Yea, post it on facebook. Maybe we had better wait a while because, after all, revenge is a dish best served cold.