My Second Career

Hi, there! It's been a while since I took the time to write. I have a few words of wisdom! I've picked up a new niche career in my advancing years, and thought I'd pass on a success story. I know a lot of us are house dogs, and that means our long term jobs are sleeping, eating, tail wagging, staying sharp on our tricks, managing to make it outside at that critical time--you know the routine! Some of us get to go hunting, some of us perform valuable services for masters who are handicapped, and some of us even perform for audiences! You know from my past entries that I am a tail chaser and a mouser. Remember that? I caught hundreds of those helpless, slow little creatures, and they were no challenge for me. As a matter of fact, I was so good at it that I seriously dented the population in Daddy's house, and then, he poisoned the rest of them! I was so put out with him! There was no possibility to practice my prodigious talent, so I lay around like the princess that I am, and got older. I am nine years old now; given to lying around more than I used to do. My tail still wags instantaeously, and I am still the mistress of plaintive howling and yearning facial expressions. My Daddy loves me! I hadn't thought of another career until last night, when my talents and ambition were called to the fore once again!

I was lying in Daddy's office, in his favorite place on the floor,* and a movement caught the corner of my vision. Now, the doctor tells Daddy I'm growing cataracts, but I swear to you I have the sight of an eagle. You know--eagle, beagle, they are almost the same--and I was immediately up and running, prancing around on hind legs, trying to get at what was flying. It looked like one of those horrible little mice I used to kill, except it was FLYING! Daddy got angry at my running around, but finally came in the room to see what I had found. "Farley! It's a bat!" he says. He shut the door, and I sized up the arcs this flying mouse was travelling in. I tried to tell him all I needed was a minute to figure it out, but no, he was all flustered and running for a blanket. As for me, all it took was three more flyovers, and up on my trusty hind legs and "CRUNCH!". That flying mouse crashed to the floor in a writhing heap! Daddy was yelling, "Great job, Farley! What a good girl!" The bat, as he calls it, was mortally wounded, I am proud to say. Then, Daddy told me to do something I couldn't do. He yelled,"Farley, kill it!" Well, my job was over. My sport and challenge were finished. I had snapped the bat out of mid air, and that's all I was interested in. I made Daddy pick the crashed flying mouse up in the blanket and throw it outside.

I want to tell all you aging canines, especially the hounds, that you can recapture your youth as well. If you liked to play ball once upon a time, well, try a frisbee. I'd LOVE to see one of you basset hounds catch a frisbee--especially one of you older dignified guys with zero altitude belly! Go for it!

We have no bats tonight. I'm lying once again in Daddy's sacred floor spot.


*I will never tell you why it's his favorite place. I'm a discreet beagle.

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