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"Hey, Beagle Man, wait for me!" It’s 11:15 AM — about the time I take Ricky for his walk. I head downstairs from my attic study to look for him in his usual spot — the far corner of the beige couch in the playroom — but before I get there I hear his soothing, distinctive, rhythmic breathing coming from Matt’s bedroom on the middle level. He’s on the carpet near the weight bench, in a sunny spot under the window, snoring so peacefully and sleeping so soundly that no matter what kind of ruckus I make — hand-clapping, name-calling, even food-bowl-clanging! — he doesn’t flinch. I say to Carol, maybe I ought to go for his walk without him. She laughs. Good one.
But there’s a lot to be said for this idea. For one thing, I could start off at Starbuck’s or Elvira’s; it wouldn’t have to be Dunkin’Donuts drive-thru, because I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving Ricky alone in the open Jeep. And I could certainly move a lot faster, cover a lot more ground, without him sniffing endlessly at the foot of every single tree trunk and telephone pole. Where would I go? Probably down to Soundview, where I’d walk along the road . . . no, wait! I’d actually be allowed to walk on the beach, since I wouldn’t have a dog with me. Or I could walk on Burying Hill Beach. Or I could walk on Southport Beach. And then I could stop at King’s Kitchen, have a nice, relaxing, Caribbean-style lunch. Maybe order a bowl of their gazpacho. Or a lobster BLT. I could bring-my-own beer . . .
Shakety-shake-shake. That’s Ricky flapping his ears from side to side — Step One in his super-elaborate and extremely deliberate wake-up routine. This is a time — one of the many — when he cannot be rushed. Thump-thump-thump. Step Two — his right front paw reflexively beating the floor as he scratches himself feverishly with his left rear one. The long, slow, luxurious s-t-r-e-t-c-h will soon follow. I get down on the rug with him and give him a snuggle.
Then I go get his leash.
LOOK FOR A NEW BEAGLE MAN POST EVERY FRIDAY. OR PRETTY CLOSE TO FRIDAY. COULD BE THURSDAY. OR SATURDAY. LET’S NOT GET TOO OBSESSIVE HERE . . . 
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Wait… lobster BLT? Is that for real?
‘Tis!