You could almost see the World War I Flying Ace darting about high above the action at Madison Square Garden Tuesday night––artfully dodging his Sopwith Camel between the retired banners of Messrs Leetch and Giacomin. Finally––finally a beagle took the top at Westminster. And that’s a long way from the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm.
Uno is a hound with leading-man good looks, which, to be fair, is what we all knew it would take for a beagle to win. My heart goes out to beagles––they live in the perpetual shadow of a legend. Few people are as charming, dynamic and debonair as Snoopy. How could we ever expect another dog to be?
When I was a boy, Snoopy was my best friend. My Snoopy––and with all due respect to loved imposters everywhere––is the Snoopy. He still is. For anyone curious about the recluse star, he’s aged gracefully. He still looks smart in his blue loungewear sweat suit. He’s grown a little more modest about showing off his legs in summer and only dons his shorts on truly hot days, the––well, how can I not?––dog days of summer. His wit is sharp as ever, acerbic and insightful. His ego was never a hindrance, and I wish I could tell you that he’s embraced a tad more humility in his later years, but I’d be lying. He still corresponds regularly with his publisher, but alas remains unpublished. The writers’ strike was hard on him, as the world famous screenwriter had only just begun his masterwork with the promising opening: “Fade In. Exterior – Dark and Stormy Night.”
He misses acting, he tells me, but he doesn’t miss the long days on set. He remembers the Halloween Special particularly, still becoming quite agitated by the memory of that especially fierce battle with the Red Baron. That night in the pumpkin patch has always been the one he felt got away. He likes that I’ve chosen writing as my career, mostly because it means I’m around a lot of the time. He doesn’t talk as much since we moved out of Mom and Dad’s place some years ago, or really, since Mom stopped tucking us in at night, but when something important is going on, he’s sure to weigh in. He likes my wife, and in some sense I think he’s relieved to know that there’s someone else to help keep an eye on me. He keeps to himself most days, puttering with one project or another in the back bedroom, but I think we both take comfort knowing the other is there.
I didn’t make a big fuss when Uno broke through Tuesday night for beagles everywhere, but I’m pretty sure I heard a voice in the other room call out: “I told you I’d get you, Red Baron.”
