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On June 12, right after I wrote a blog post about two beagles I run into frequently down at Southport Harbor (“Is It Maggie and Dutch?”), I got called on the carpet via an e-mail from Robby:

Not a good post at all.  Not helped by the fact that there’s no Ricky picture — that’s the best freaking part fcol [for crying out loud]

Earlier this month I did an entry on the passing of two dogs that belonged to friends of mine, in which I ran photos of the dear departed pets (“Tongo and Buddy Forever,” Dec. 5).  Robby flagged that one, too, with an e-mail:

I thought I told you, they’re only good, and I only read them, when they have Ricky pictures.

Okay, Robby — I get it.  Here’s a little early Christmas present for you . . .

Ho, Ho, Ho!

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Ricky and his patron saint (Halo courtesy of Carole Fass. What, do you think I know how to do that kind of thing??

Anyone who enters our playroom via the garage between 1 and 2:30 PM will all but trip over an eager, expectant, tail-wagging, door-blocking beagle who has been waiting steadfastly on that very spot for hours.  If that anyone is me, or Carol, or Matt, or Greg, the tail will gradually slow down, disappointment will momentarily cloud the dog’s handsome brown-and-white face — and then he’ll resume his vigil at the door.  That’s because he’s waiting for one person, and one person only.

Luz.

Sure, our pup is pampered by every member of our family — Robby does an especially good job of this — but nobody spoils him like Luz Elena, Ricky’s patron saint.  According to Luz, nothing is, ever has been, or ever will be that lovely dog’s fault.  Luz to Ricky (but intended for our ears):  “Oh, Ricky, you peed on Mommy and Daddy’s carpet?  That’s because they didn’t play with you enough, did they, you poor puppy.”

Ricky’s been with us for 8 years, and I’ve come to realize that while he’s doted on by everyone in the household, there are only two people who are tuned in to Ricky’s wants and needs 24/7:  me . . . and Luz.

I’m constantly aware of what Ricky’s up to — wanting him to have his share of “quality time.”  I like to take him on “destination” walks — a drive to a nice local spot — where his day can be “enriched” by sniffing new sniffs and socializing with other dogs.  I’m always on top of when he needs to go out, and when he needs his meals and his meds.  And of course, as most of you know, I took him on my road trip to California and back, with Ricky riding shotgun the whole way.

But Luz puts even me to shame.

Last Saturday, when Luz came in, she of course asked Carol when Ricky last peed and pooped (a constant topic of conversation in this precinct).  Carol reported that he’d done both when she walked him around the yard.  A little later, Luz, clearly obsessing, asked for clarification:  “So you just walked him around the yard?”  Carol nodded.  Later still:  “So you didn’t take him for a ride in the car?”  When Carol said no, Luz gathered Ricky up and together they headed for her Toyota.  “His daddy always takes him out for a car ride,” she said, by way of explanation.  “I don’t want him to feel bad.”

Yesterday I came into the kitchen and accidentally let the door slam.  “Shhhh!” Luz whispered, motioning to Ricky, who was in his crate.  “The baby’s sleeping.”

She gives “the baby” his bath on precisely the 15th of every month.  I’m not sure what she thinks would happen if she had to be a day late; all I know is she gets frantic at the thought.  She lets him hang with her in the kitchen for hours at a time, literally right at her feet, giving him God-knows-what to eat all day long.  She makes him a “salad” in the late afternoon, to tide him over till his 5:30 meal.

And I’ll bet money I know what she’s doing tomorrow: her Christmas shopping.  For Ricky.

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Mike's Tongo

I stepped out the front door of our house in Vermont on Saturday to go for a run — and was almost bowled over by a high-spirited, hyper-friendly young Kerry Blue terrier who came bounding at me like an over-wound-up Disney pet from Toy Story.

I didn’t recognize the pup.  “Don’t you have another dog?” I asked my neighbor Mike, the Kerry Blue’s owner.  I was thinking back to the countless times I’d been tackled in a similar fashion by a wiry, handsome Rhodesian Ridgeback, charging out of the same house.

“That was Tongo,” Mike said.  “We had to put him down just after Labor Day, two-and-a-half years ago.”  Watson, the high-octane terrier, was acquired shortly after Tongo passed away.  “Tongo had an osteosarcoma in his leg,” Mike told me.  The vet laid out the options:  chemo, or amputation of the leg.  They went the amputation route, but Mike said he’s always regretted it.  His eyes looked like they were tearing up, and there was a little tremor in his voice.  Tongo had twice disappeared into the woods to die, before Mike and his wife found him and ultimately put him to sleep.  Mike said he he always meant to spread Tongo’s ashes

Mimi's Buddy

in the woods he loved here in Vermont, and also in Massachusetts, their full-time home, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it just yet.

I couldn’t believe how much Mike, talking about his dog, sounded like Mimi, a long-time writing student of mine and a good friend.  Mimi’s also been going through a rough patch on the dog front.  She e-mailed me last Monday:  “Having an awful week.  I’ve been told my Lab has to be put down, and I’m trying to do the right thing.”  A day later she wrote, “Buddy was euthanized at 5:30 PM.  My house feels so empty — it’s difficult to describe.  My two other dogs keep looking at me, as if to ask, ‘Where’s Buddy?’  I don’t know what to tell them.”

Ten years ago I wouldn’t have known what to make of Mike, or Mimi.  Ten years ago I didn’t have a dog.  Now I get it.  I often think of Ricky as my fourth son.  My guess is that when his time comes, I’ll react a lot like Mike, and a lot like Mimi.

Here’s hoping I don’t have to find out for a long, long time.

NOTE:  FOR AN AFTERNOON OF LAUGHS, HOLIDAY CHEER, WINE & REFRESHMENTS, COME ON UP TO MILLRACE BOOKSHOP ON THE BEAUTIFUL FARMINGTON RIVER AND HEAR BEAGLE MAN READ FROM AND SIGN COPIES OF HIS BOOK, ACCEPT MY KID, PLEASE!  A DAD’S DESCENT INTO COLLEGE APPLICATION HELL.   SATURDAY, DEC. 10 AT 3PM; MILLRACE BOOKS; 40 MILL LANE, FARMINGTON CT 06032