THE WHITE COUCH

Looks pretty tempting, no?  I sure think so — and I always have.  But I was never allowed to lie on it, which I found kind of strange, since I’d always been allowed to sit or lie anywhere else in the house.  And it’s not like Beagle Man was ever one of those gung-ho trainer types — “That dog can’t sit on the furniture; you have to show him you’re the alpha!”  In fact, he never really “trained” me to do much of anything.  We just always got along.  But no: the white couch in the Montauk beach house was absolutely forbidden.

Which meant . . . it had to be Mom behind this!  As I said, if it had been Beagle Man who was always telling me “no,” I’d just give him my tilty-head “why not?” look, and he’d say, “Okay, fine.”  But Mom was determined to keep that white couch white, and, to be fair, I do spend a lot of time in the ocean and on the sand, and I do bring in a lot of the beach with me.  So no white couch.

Six or seven years ago, things changed.  Robby was in his mid-twenties, and didn’t yet have a puppy of his own, so he still kind of considered me his dog.  He’d be on the white couch watching sports on TV — which is pretty much all he ever does.  And he’d pat the couch, as in, I should sit and watch with him.  Whoa.  I’d take a look around.  No Beagle Man.  More important — much more important! — no Mom.  So I’d creep up on the couch, hesitantly, and lay down next to him.  And the world didn’t end, and everything seemed fine — until Mom would come down the stairs and see me.  “WHAT?!” she’d yell.  And then would lay down the law — again.

Well, once Greg and Matt noticed that Robby was constantly letting me up on the couch, they’d do the same.  What did they care?  Sure, Mom would scream, I’d jump down and look guilty, but that would be that.  And this is how it went.

Until this summer.  Robby, Greg, and Matt aren’t around that much anymore, what with all those little boys in their families.  Mostly it’s just me, Beagle Man, and Mom.  So I figured it was time to test the waters again.  Mom was reading the paper at the kitchen counter.  Beagle Man was watching the Mets, sitting in a wicker chair in the living room.  And the white couch was empty.  With my eyes on Beagle Man, I tip-toed over to the couch . . . and jumped on it.  Beagle Man saw me, opened his mouth to speak, and then just gave me that “ah, what the heck” smile.  But when Mom spotted me, she let me have it.  What’s more, she let Beagle Man have it.  And that’s when the real crack-down began.

So now, I stay off the couch . . . when they’re around.  But they’re not always around.  Beagle Man will go on his bike to Jack’s Coffee.  Mom will drive to the IGA.  They’ll both go out for dinner.  When they come home, I’ll be on the floor, where I “belong,” looking innocent as a newborn.  Sure, they’ll find the couch pillows messed up, and maybe some fresh stains on the upholstery.  As we know, though, that’s just circumstantial evidence, and won’t hold up in court.

But here’s my really big, bold move:  From the time they started bringing me out to Montauk, I’d always go upstairs with them to

their bedroom for the night, and sleep in Ricky the Beagle’s dog bed.  (It’s much too small for me, but I like it anyway.)  Now, though, I dawdle downstairs in the living room.  Usually they’re too tired to force me to join them, so they just leave the bedroom door open, for when I come up later.

But I don’t come up later.  I stay in the living room.

And guess where I sleep?

Also, because I’m excellent at hearing footsteps, I never get caught.

Except for this morning.  ->

Beagle Man always has a lot to say, so I’ll just pipe up in The Duck Dog Speaks whenever I can.