From time to time I have mentioned in the blog that His Royal Highness The Bigglet is a bit of a woofer, or even a lot of a woofer. He’s now just days away from his 13th birthday and though he’s calmed down a lot, he is still a rather vocal little boy. I doubt there’s anyone in our village that doesn’t know when it’s doggy breakfast / dinner time, and it still amazes me that our postie feels the need to ring the doorbell, because we can rarely hear it over the woofage. For all that, Biggles often falls silent at times when woofing would not only be warranted, but also very desirable.
Case in point: last week while we were busy down at the bottom of the garden, Biggles decided he’d had enough of the little alpine strawberries we grow for the pups; it was time for some of the full size things growing under our bird netting. Being The Biggly Boy and current holder of the “Best Lead Tangler of 2021” title, he managed to get one of his rear paws caught up in the net. This would have been the perfect time to call attention to his plight with a bit of woofing, but he didn’t; instead he silently panicked and made a bad tangle worse. By the time Susan caught his struggling form in of the corner of her eye, he’d already managed to tear a nail bed. I grabbed him and held him still while I extracted his foot from the Gordian knot he’d made; expecting an infection to develop on the wounded tootsie, Susan made an appointment with the vet. The UK’s infamous Covid “Pingdemic” delayed this appointment by pushing the vet into self-isolation and we subsequently cancelled it as tea tree oil baths and doggy antiseptic ointment had made further help unnecessary. Regardless, the fact remains that there’d have been nothing to worry about if his Biggleship had woofed in a timely and appropriate manner. One could further argue that the net tangle wouldn’t have happened at all if he hadn’t tried to nick our big humie strawberries, but he is a Beagle so that point is somewhat academic.
Another conspicuous example of non-woofing while in a predicament happened the other morning. I opened the crates so that Beanie and Biggles could join us in bed – which they did – and then of course The Bigglet got a bit too warm, rolled out of bed, and landed on the floor with a loud thud. That was not the predicament by the way – that was completely normal – nope, the predicament happened when Biggles started rolling on the carpet. The roll became increasingly energetic and grunty, until about a minute later I heard a hollow metallic thud after which.. silence. Uncomfortable, worrying silence. I poked my head up above the covers and looked in the direction of the most recent commotion and there was Biggles, trussed up like a turkey in the power cable (unplugged, fortunately) of a fan we’d been using during hot nights earlier in the year. His rolling had apparently been so vigorous that he’d ended up at the other end of the room and somehow wound himself up in the cable. He was looking back at me with an expression that said “Dad, I’ve done it again. Please help!”.
But still, no woof.
Now I can appreciate that in the wild a woof for help when in a vulnerable state might gain the unwelcome attention of predators. That said, Biggles is not in the wild and he doesn’t have predators (well, unless you count his sister Beanie) and I’m convinced he knows this. After all, I’m pretty sure wolves don’t hunt socks and howl when no-one comes to purchase them with a biccie. So why doesn’t he once, just once, woof for help in a genuine emergency? I guess it’s just another aspect of the unfathomable mystery that is Biggles’ brain.
