As Beanie and Biggles approached the end of their lives we wanted two youngsters to experience life with them and learn their little ways, so that something of them would carry on with us into the future. We had intended to get a boy first, and call him Monkey, because Biggles had always been a little monkey. As it turned out our first pup opportunity was  for a girl, and we decided she would be called Poppy, a nod to “Poppet”, one of the many nicknames we had for Beanie (I would often tell Beanie that she was “The Poppet From Poppetsville”).

Our first visit to see the litter was a blur of cuteness, but we came home with a card full of photos and video snippets which we carefully reviewed. We gave names to the pups based on their markings. One little girl with a thin, tapered forehead stripe, who we called “Sharp”, featured in the majority of the shots I’d taken. Of all the pups, Sharp had spent the most time with Susan, happily playing with the remnants of a pink toy and a little red dumbbell. We were near the bottom of the list of propective owners so I knew we’d get little or no choice in the matter, but I had the strongest feeling that Sharp would become our Poppy. When we were offered the pick of the remaining two girls and Sharp was one of them, it was a no-brainer; she’d chosen us, so we chose her. Honestly even after all that’s happened if we could revisit that moment, we’d choose her again; she was just so incredibly special.

Right from the start, Poppy was the most incredibly affectionate little Beagle. Many dogs get uncomfortable holding eye contact with a human, but Poppy loved gazing into our eyes endlessly. She had some kind of airway anomaly that made her a noisy breather as a pup; Biggles had something similar and also grew out of it, but while his breathing sounded like a rasping snore, Poppy sounded like a purring kitten. We’d pick her up, she’d happily snuggle into us, gaze lovingly into our eyes, and purr contentedly. It was easy to lose an hour with little Poppy in our arms.

On one of her first walks I introduced her to a neighbour, and while we talked a cat trotted past us. Poppy was eager to approach the cat and the cat didn’t seem to mind, so I put a little slack in her lead and let it happen. A second later they were in a standing cuddle together, gently rubbing cheeks, and both making faint purring noises. This is no lie or exaggeration, it’s just as it happened. The neighbour looked at me open-mouthed; she’d never seen anything like it, and neither had I. Poppy never lost that amazingly innocent, gentle nature.

In time she developed tailored cuddles for each of us. She would climb onto Susan’s left shoulder (always the left shoulder, regardless of how or where Susan was sitting) and curl up with her face pressed firmly against Susan’s and her ear closing off Susan’s airways. You wouldn’t want Poppy cuddling up to the residents in a care home; she could easily have suffocated them.

My personalised cuddle occurred whenever I was crouching down at work on something; she’d sneak in under an armpit, raise her head and hold her cheek against mine. I called these little encounters “Poppy Moments”. No matter what was going through my head at the time, no matter how crappy or stressed or worried I was feeling, I’d stop what I was doing and let that little Poppy Moment raise my spirits. In fact if either of us was feeling down, it was guaranteed that Poppy would do her best to make things better.

Poppy trusted every humie and animal she met; only two things gave her pause: toothbrushing and puddles. I overcame the fear of toothbrushing by introducing the “Botty In The Slotty” technique, where I’d reverse park her bum between my legs and brush her teeth from behind. Her fear of puddles subsided after a few visits to the beach, where she saw Beanie & Biggles happily trotting through the water without consequence.

As Poppy grew she became more physically distinct from other Beagles. She had a tiny chest for the breed, and this coupled with her long, rangy forelimbs led to us saying “Lost! In! Space!” when we were carrying her; her arm movements were reminiscent of the robot on that old TV show. Poppy could move very quickly over short distances, but the way she ran was, well I suppose one way to put it would be to call it lacking in efficiency: her front paws would travel in an arc reminiscent of the “wax-on, wax-off” movements in the Karate Kid movie. It was a little odd, but it worked. We found it impossible to stop her darting through doorways or through baby gates by phsyically blocking her, but she was a very biddable little girl and would (mostlly) stay put in a sit-wait if needed.

About 3 months after we got Poppy, we got her partner in crime Monkey. She was still growing of course, but he caught her up in size in just two months and rapidly overtook her, ending up nearly twice her weight, but her small stature combined with her delicate features and special nature instantly endeared her to most people she met, especially men. “Next time I see you, I’m stealing her” joked one Beagle owner we met regularly on our beach runs. “I’d take her in a second” was another common comment, and at a local park one of the staff stopped to chat and make a fuss of her, saying “If that’s what she’s like now, she’ll always look like a puppy no matter how old she gets”.

When her seizures started we were determined to find a way to manage her condition without drugs so that no side-effects could flatten her amazing personality or destroy her quality of life. We must have done well over 100 hours of research, and with her vet’s blessing we came up with a no-drug strategy. Some of the dietary changes we brought in for Poppy also had a profoundly beneficial effect for our older Beagles. The turmeric-based “golden paste” dramatically improved Beanie’s quality of life in her final months. Just before Beanie died Poppy had a  cluster of seizures and we added two more elements to Poppy’s diet – taurine and pre/probiotic. On the night we took Beanie to be put to sleep we had no alternative but to crate Poppy & Monkey and leave the house. We were afraid of what we’d find on our return; would all the commotion and stress have caused Poppy to have a seizure in our absence? As I shuffled into the bedroom, still reeling from losing Beanie, I saw Poppy in the “down” position on our bed, with her tail wagging, but it didn’t register. I even said “We’re back Poppy, are you OK?” as I approached her crate. It was empty. I panicked for a second, trying to work it out. I looked back and forth between the crate and a cheerful, relaxed Poppy on the bed, and then I saw that the top of the (fabric) crate door had been ripped open. Finally the penny dropped. She’d got into a panic and ripped her way out of the crate, but she hadn’t had a seizure.

As the count of seizure-free weeks mounted up, the feeling grew that we’d beaten her epilepsy. More than that, we both felt the hand of fate at work. Poppy’s epilepsy (or more specifically our treatment of it) had helped to make Beanie’s last months better. Now that was done, perhaps the epilepsy itself was done? I know how that sounds, but it’s something we both thought at the time. Shades of “A dog’s purpose” I suppose.

Just as we’d hoped, both our youngsters – but Poppy in particular – helped us through the loss of Beanie & Biggles. I gave up the battle to stop Poppy sneaking into our bed in the early hours of each morning, in fact I often went to sleep anticipating her nocturnal uncrating, because her cuddles were just so comforting.

The day that Beanie died we’d taken her buggy out with us. The morning after she was put to sleep Susan noticed that it was broken. This really upset me and I felt compelled to buy parts and repair it. More than two months after Beanie’s death, thanks in no small part to Poppy cuddles, I finally felt ready to dismantle Beanie’s buggy and store it in the loft. Within a few hours of that, Poppy had the little cluster of seizures that prompted us to take her to the vets. We still don’t know what went wrong at the vets or why she died.

Poppy was a perfect, gentle little angel with a beautiful, pure soul. She WAS too good for this world but we are so happy for every precious moment we spent with her.

Beanie, Biggles and Poppy are all in their final resting places in the garden – part of our lives forever. Each has a little flower bed with something special just for them – Beanie has a beautiful hand made steel tree adorned with lights; Biggles has what we call his ‘sonic wagger’ – a lovely, melodic windchime (let me tell you he sounds a lot better from rainbow bridge than he did in this world!). I’m building Poppy a lovely wooden obelisk ; this might cause some ructions on rainbow bridge as a certain young madam from Poppetsville won’t be happy that Poppy’s obelisk is taller than her tree!!

Biggles was always a handful on walks – his head was full of nonsense, but in crises (such as when Beanie got lost on The Merrick) I’d talk to him ‘man to man’ and tell him he had to step up and be a good boy.  Obviously he never understood my words, but somehow he understood what was needed; he never let me down. After Poppy’s death I stood by Biggles’ bed and asked him to take very special care of Poppy. His windchime answered. I know his littlest sister Poppy is in safe paws.

I cannot believe I’m writing this, I cannot believe what has happened. Our little Poppy has died. We don’t know yet know if it was her epilepsy or if something went horribly wrong with her treatment at the vet, but she’s gone.

Whenever we were going through a door or a baby gate together she would put her paw on it assertively as if to say “this one, this is the one you have to open Dad”. It became a little ritual that we always did; she’d do it with her paw and I’d say it. “This one”.

The youngsters are really growing into their roles as the new Beagle A-Team, in fact they’re doing so well it’s tempting to think they’ve been getting help; maybe the spirits of Beanie & Biggles are whispering in their big floppy ears when they’re asleep.

For example, ever since getting access to the humie bed Poppy has taken a strong liking to it, and is constantly looking for new ways to get in there when she shouldn’t be. Quite recently she’s taken to crying in her crate in the very early hours of the morning – not constantly you understand – but Beanie-style, which is to say just a little whimper here and a whimper there at seamingly random intervals, like an intermittently dripping tap.

The first time this happened I assumed Poppy wanted a pee, but the true cause was revealed the instant I opened her crate: in one impossibly swift movement she darted round me, leapt onto the bed and inserted herself into Susan’s arms. “See, I’m settled in here already so you can’t put me back in my crate now Dad!” is what the body language was saying. Well I did put her in back her crate, and when the same thing happened the next night, I was ready for it. I opened the crate just enough to let Poppy out in a slow and controlled fashion, and the second she looked like she was turning towards the bed, I shoved her right back in and bolted the door shut again. “I’ve got your number little Popster!” I said, “You can’t catch me out even at four in the morning!”. After 16 years with Beanie & Biggles, you’d think I’d know never to openly challenge a Beagle to a game of wits.

The next night/morning the whimper tap started dripping again. I know I should have ignored it, but both Susan and I really wanted our sleep, so I chose to give Poppy the benefit of the doubt. I carefully & slowly opened the crate, and Poppy emerged, showing no signs of diverting back to the humie bed. “OK, go into the hall and I’ll get the alarm off “. She trotted straight into the hall, head pointing towards the kitchen door and the route out into the garden. It took about 2 seconds to disable the alarm but when I’d done, Poppy was no longer in the hall. I knew exactly where she was. I extracted her from our bed and put her back into hers, vowing not to be caught out again.

The next night the Poppy alarm clock went off a bit earlier and although I was even more bleary eyed, I knew what to do.

Step 1: stub right big toe on door and curse as quietly as possble even though it really hurt.

Step 2: disable the alarm, open the kitchen door and baby gate so that there’d be no pause or opportunity for distraction on our way to the garden.

Step 3: stand by the crate and very quietly tell Poppy: “this had better be a real pee request, or you’re going back to the puppy shop you naughty little git”.

Step 4: open crate and track Poppy very carefully, muscles sprung and ready to catch the pesky little varmint if she doubles back.

Poppy headed out of her crate with an urgent trot, making a beeline for the kitchen. Clearly this was the real deal; she geniuinely wanted to use the outdoor facilities. I made a mental note to put more effort into making sure she gets final pee before bed in future, but at least this current interruption in my sleep wasn’t frivolous. “Good girl” I told her, “we’ll soon have you in that garden”. I relaxed out of my ready-to-respond state and the instant I did so, without even looking round at me, Poppy sensed it, did a 180 faster than a frightened rat and flew into the humie bed.

I am going to win this. I just need a bit more time and practice. And perhaps an uninterrupted night’s sleep.

Monkey has clearly been receiving messages from Biggles. I’ve caught him sneeking into our wardrobe and making a bed in there several times now – just like his mentor – and he’s been nicking items of clothing and parading them proudly around the house. Biggles has made it clear that socks are off the table as they’ve always been so clearly a Biggly thing, so Monkey is focusing on gloves. Actually it would be more correct to use the general term “hand-coverings”, as he seems equally partial to mittens. Regardless, it’s lovely once again to hear the scampering of a little Beagle boy who’s excited about his latest acquisition.