Revenge Of The Beagle

We’re staying with rothko’s sister, and her husband—and their beagle, Bailey. As I sat and wrote these journal entries, I munched a few Pringles and had something to drink. Bailey came in and sat and stared at me, and made a whining noise. She sniffed around the desk, making it obvious that she knew I was snacking, and that I wasn’t feeding her. After a few more unsuccessful attempts to beg, even going as far as to lower her ears and give me puppy-dog eyes, she disappeared.

Well, I just went to fetch a magazine—and discovered that in retaliation, the damn dog scratched open the door to the room upstairs, grabbed a tube of hand cream from my shoulder bag, and covered it in bite marks. She then shredded some of rothko’s underwear. Finally, she carried the hand cream downstairs, and left it outside the door to the computer room so I’d be sure to find it. She then settled down on the bed to wait.

I wasn’t sure quite what to do. I felt obliged to discipline the damn dog in some way, so I took the chewed items in and showed them to the dog. Normally she’s hyper at the chance of some attention, but this time she sat quietly and looked at me, and looked at the objects, and then looked at me again. I shouted at her a bit, and gave her a few gentle swats on the nose and rump too—not enough to hurt her, but enough to make her cower a bit. She stayed silent, lowered her ears, and looked up at me as I told her off. She clearly knew exactly what I was upset about.