Every Friday this summer I watch Beagle Man packing up the car. The big green duffel. Mrs. B’s red, flowery overnight bag. B-Man’s backpack. The blue beach bag with the RKH on the side. And then, they pat me on the head, say, “Bye-bye, Cutey” . . . and take off without me! Talk about cruelty to animals. Last Friday, though, they sunk to a new low. They got the car all loaded, lifted me in — I’m like, “All right! We’re off to Montauk! I’m finally going!” — and next thing you know, they head to Main Street and leave me with Luz!
Now don’t get me wrong: You know I love Luz to death. She spoils me rotten, and I get to hang with Nena the Chihuahua all weekend. But it’s the principle. You just don’t get a dog’s hopes up — especially a dog who lives for car rides, like I do — and then, seeya! They keep referring to the beach house as a “construction site,” and say they’re afraid I’ll fall through the unfinished floors, or wander off the edge of the deck, because there’s no railing yet. What, I’m a bigger klutz than Mrs. B? I don’t think so. Besides, all my buds — Romeo, Bandit, Monty, Tripp — they’re out there partying every weekend . . . and asking for me. And dogs aren’t elephants, you know. Pretty soon it’s gonna be, Ricky who? I mean, seriously, Beagle Man. Man’s best friend?
The Roof Rack Report (#roofrackreport on Twitter, for those who follow me already on @BeagleManHank) appears on Mondays, usually. It’s about politics, travel, food . . . important stuff like that.
Oh Ricky — that’s a heartbreaking story.
Ricky, This is off-putting, to say the least. He calls himself Beagleman and she, Mrs. BM? Do they realize these hot and humid days of summer are called “Dog Days” for a reason. Under ideal conditions these days give you carte blanche to act really, really dopey and ornery….when compounded by being passed over for a nice long car ride and the chance to hang out with your friends on the East End they are playing with fire. Seems like open season for you to pee where you want, when you want, get into any garbage you want and demand a seat at the dinner table.
Poor thing!