He looks so innocent. And mostly, he is. He can be affectionate and cuddly. Put him on a leash, though, and he turns into a monster.
He's our daughter's dog. A beagle. When she, her husband and two children flew to California to spend Christmas with Tom's family, they left Roscoe with us. My husband had just had knee surgery, so it was my job to walk both dogs every day. I had two daily routes mapped out: a long one and a short one. In the interest of fairness, I planned to take one or the other on the longer walk every other day. That didn't work out. I soon found that Roscoe was just too much dog for me. Even taking him on the short walk just wore me out.
The dog dragged me along, constantly zig-zagging from side to side, apparently following a scent. He'd become breathless with excitement, emitting little yips. Every few minutes--or so it seemed--he'd erupt into a full-throated bellow, trumpeting the news to his imaginary pack that he had scented a squirrel. It was embarrassing! How could a slender 25-pound dog make such a racket?
On New Year's Day, his people returned. It was none too soon. His leash and kibble were packed before they even got here from the airport. "Oh, he was no trouble at all," I said as they all piled into their car for their journey home.