A lovely op-ed in the NYT today, about a man and his dog. This is classic beagle:
In the rippling heat of a Boston July, we took Edgar to a green suburban meadow. He sat dutifully as we dragged a small canvas cylinder drenched in "rabbit scent" through the tall grass, making an aromatic path, then leaving the toy and a dog biscuit hidden at the trail’s end.
"Ready, boy? Get that rabbit!" I urged the stationary beagle, a small Ferdinand the Bull. "Kill the wabbit!"
I tapped his rear, and, as if I could almost hear him say, "I would prefer not to," he stood up, put his nose to the ground, and walked off, in precisely the opposite direction of the imaginary bunny’s escape.
Edgar sat down again, some 20 feet away, where, I swear, an actual rabbit — aroused to lunacy by the field steaming with eau de lapin — leapt directly over him.
The author credits his beagle with his marriage proposal. I have a similar story. When Aaron discovered Eddy (she was a last-chance shelter-dog displayed in a dog-store), it was love at first sight. It took only a few hours to talk me into it. But it was a few days later that I realized that it hadn’t even occurred to me that Aaron and I wouldn’t be together for at least the lifetime of a dog. So I proposed a short time thereafter. I write this in the car on the way to Provincetown, where we introduced Eddy to the sea last season. When we come back this fall, we’ll be married. And Dusty and Eddy helped make it happen.
The Dish 