He’s a good boy

Astro is our beagle mutt. There is disagreement about how old he is, but let’s go with ten or eleven years old. The fur on top of his head is now white; he struggles to climb stairs because of his achy hip joints. Each morning, he gets doggie treats which contain glucosamine and hemp seeds. He loves them. Is my dog a pothead?

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A kind-hearted family rescued Astro’s mom off busy downtown streets several years ago. After a few days in their home, she delivered two puppies. Our son, Chris, adopted the smaller pup and named him Astro after the Jetson’s dog. (Ruh-roh, Rorge.) His brother, Barkley, went to live with one of Chris’ friends.

Astro had to stay in a crate while Chris was at work. Margaret felt sorry for him and would go to Chris’ house to “rescue that poor little puppy”.  She brought him to our house for the day, sometimes. Eventually, he moved into our house and took up his full-time residence. 

Our grand-puppy became our puppy.

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Astro has to work if he’s going to stay with us. Everyone has to pitch in around here. His job is to keep elephants out of our yard. It’s a big responsibility, but he always gets an excellent rating on his annual performance reviews. There are never any elephant footprints in our yard.

While we consider Astro a beagle mutt, the vet thinks he has some blue tick hound in him. He has the distinctive beagle bah-roo, bah-roo bark and he likes to show it off. He often sits with me in my study. I like to think we both enjoy the peaceful tap-tapping on a keyboard as I write. It’s so chill in my study . . . until the Amazon truck pulls in the driveway. When he sees the delivery person, our home goes from shh-the-baby-is-sleeping mode to full-on screamo concert. 

He’s an anxious dog. 

He sits next to me with his paw on my leg if it’s raining. If we have a thunderstorm, he wants to climb inside my shirt with me. When Margaret cleans upstairs, moves furniture, runs the vacuum – what we call “make some racket”— he’ll whimper next to me, shivering like an orphan in a snowstorm.

He loves to tear stuffing out of his toys looking for the squeak. He chews the squeaks inside them until they’re dead.  Margaret (his grandma) patiently restuffs the toys and props them up on the fireplace hearth.  And there they sit, squeakless, until we have the next visitor. If Astro knows our guests, he meets them at the front door with a gift – one of his de-squeaked toys.

When dogs do this (according to the internet), it’s a sign of their affection. Their appreciation. Whichever it is, his gift of a prized possession to a visitor melts his grandma’s heart. 

He really is a good boy.