To Bide the Time...

To bide your time until I'm ready to tell you what you no doubt are dying to know (which is the terrible tale of Ernie's attempts at murder in the first degree), here is a video of a much kinder pup who resides in the far off lands of Japan. I have heavenly Ernie, and Japan has lovely Blair. I've been enjoying this privately for a few years now and am thrilled to share it with you. Enjoy the background music and don't let the broken English distract you.

Ernie, Attempted Murderer: The Frustration Within

I regret to say that the next adventure I will share about our friend Ernie the heavenly basset hound is very upsetting. It is a deep dark story that may reveal Ernie's true character (which we would perhaps rather ignore). Something very awful that he once did- or almost did- and would've most definitely done had it not been for my nimble mother. But before I tell you what he did (which is truly terrible), I think I must make you aware of the psychological climate in which Ernie most certainly was living when he did (or almost did) this awful thing. At least in that way, perhaps some mercy may be had upon his soft little brown head.

There are two things you must know about Ernie that will perhaps soften your judgement when I tell you this nearly tragic tale. The first is that Ernie cannot stand to be separated from those he loves by door, water, time or space. He cannot and will not tolerate closed doors, people in waters he cannot traverse, get-away weekends or the privacy of an afternoon spent alone. I believe the photograph will suffice to show you the extent of his desparation for companionship and the human touch.




Second, despite these propensities on Ernie's part for quiet love and comradery, my parents insist on taking him to the lake 5 times a year where rather than cause him separation anxieties of time and space, they cause him even more tauntingly poignant separation anxieties by water. PLUS he's a DOG for LORD'S SAKE and is not interested in the slightest, but made desperately sea sick by the rocking of the boat which is in no way alleviated by the blazing heat of the sun from which he cannot escape. If his flesh in this photo were visible under his fur, he would be positively green.

Now bearing all that in mind, I am not yet prepared to tell you exactly what my pooch is guilty of doing or almost doing. But I will say that both of the aforementioned frustrations were at a fever pitch in his little pup mind the day of the terrible thing. So now I will leave you with this information to settle a while before I tell you the dreadful thing that Ernie did (or almost did)- perhaps (or not at all) due (in part or completely) to these doggish frustrations. More to come.

Ernie the Enigma Pt. II: Beagle or Basset?

As of now, I think it safe to say that everyone has heard of Uno the 15 inch beagle and his history-making victory at the Westminster Dog Show. This unprecedented event in beagle history has brought the breed to the forefont of pop culture, so I would wager that most people, if not before, could presently conjure up the image of exactly what a beagle should be in their minds. So good, we all have the same frame of reference.

Bearing that in mind, I would like to express my next argument for Ernie's questionable identity as said basset visually. Observe below the three photographs: one of Uno, another of what a basset SHOULD look like and another of what Ernie "the basset" DOES look like. Decide for yourself.

This is Uno, champion of the dog world. What a star.









And this, a true basset. Observe the dignified stance of the old war horse. The word formidable comes to mind..

NOW, here is Ernie Foster. He's wearing his Christmas jacket. Notice the height, the length of the ears and nose, the length of the body. The standoffish attitude.












Given the above photographic evidence it is overwhelmingly apparent that Ernie Foster, though perhaps not all Beagle is largely beagleish in appearance. After review of both cases for or against Ernie's identity (depending on which side one has taken), I think the ultimate conclusion leads to a more animated solution.

Ernie Foster is perhaps best classified as the flesh and bone manifestation of the spirit of the only other hound in known history who both thought he was a person and didn't resemble his claimed breed: Snoopy. Case closed.

ERNIE = SNOOPY

MYSTERY SOLVED: PBGV BREAKTHROUGH

THIS JUST IN: As of today, February 21st at 7:30 p.m. I have solved one of the greatest mysteries of AT LEAST the past 4 months. And THAT'S saying something. I shall tell you how it happened.

Around lunchtime this afternoon in my graphic design class my charming Venezuelan professor began speaking about her dog of choice, the PBGV. We thought perhaps we had misheard her (her accent can be quite thick), but when she wrote it on the board, we realized we had heard right: PBGV. She explained, "A PBGV is a rare breed of dog," (I hope you're imagining a musical South American roll of the tongue), "It's a Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen (accentegu on the second "e" in Vendeen). It's name is Sammy Sosa."

WELL you can imagine how my ears perked up upon hearing the second word in the acronym. I could hardly contain myself. BASSET? You're teasing. But no, c'etais vrai. And so, lickety split I finished the day and ran to the nearest google imager to see just how much Basset a PBGV had in it. AND YOU WILL NEVER BELIEVE WHAT I SAW.



The above pictured pup is, according to the Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen (accentegu sur le deuxieme e) Club of America named so for the following attributes:

Petit: Small
Basset: Low to the Ground
Griffon: Rough Coated
Vendéen: Region in France Breed Originated

That all may be so, but there is one physical characteristic that is not listed that interests me tremendously. Do you see what I see? The answer to the Linnaean riddle that has boggled and goggled my mind for MONTHS. The terrier with the hound's eyes from the visit with the Great Uncle at the treasured nursing home. And now mystery and breed perversion in my mind has a name: the PBGV.

Ernie the Enigma Pt. I: Person or Pup?

Now, not to change the tone of these tales, but I must digress from these short stories of Ernie's life to tell you some strange details about his person. Perhaps literally. The first part of the series I will affectionately call Ernie the Enigma Pt. I: Person or Pup?. Under this section will follow subsections introducing a three-pronged presentation of evidence: Ernie's Medical Maladies, Ernie's Knowing Eyes and Ernie, Can You Hear Me?.

I preface the evidence with an explanation of the accusations. I'll be direct. Most who have met him would posit that Ernie Foster, the basset hound now familiar to you, is not in fact a dog at all, but a human being. I and my family are of this number of nay-sayers to his pedigree. We feel that up a little country road on a little country hill on a little puppy farm, we were lied to. Here are the strongest of our arguments, but mind you, there are more than these. The life jacket Ernie is wearing in the above picture should make that obvious.

I. Ernie's Medical Maladies
As was previously made clear in the tale of monstrous Hell the Airedale in Ernie's Brush With Death, Ernie's life, though charmed, has not been without tribulation. While some of the medical problems that Ernie has encountered have been both routinely canine and beyond his control (Hell's attack and some unrequested neutering), others have been neither routine nor canine nor perhaps completely accidental. In short, he has had more human-like injuries than dogish. Case in point:

A. Ernie pierced his bottom lip with a yellow fishing lure while we were at church in 2004. According to dog years, he would have been approximately 17 at this point. Coincidence?

B. Ernie tore his ACL on a walk last spring. According to www.EHealthMD.com, the major causes of a tear in the anterior cruciate ligament are injuries sustained during: football, tennis, basketball, soccer, wrestling, gymnastics, or martial arts. Which raises the question, what did it for Ernie- the high bars? The half-nelson? Perhaps the roundhouse kicks.

C. Ernie takes Benadryl for his allergies. Seasonal allergies? Suspect.

II. Ernie's Knowing Eyes
On a visit to a place that is my second true love (after puppy farms) two years ago, I saw an anomily that haunts me to the present. After chatting with my wild Uncle Richard Day one afternoon as my mother and I were leaving the Episcopal Church Home, I saw a perversion of breeding.

Through the closing doors of an elevator like a bolt of lightning flashed the eyes of a hound. That was not the disturbing part at all, however. What repulsed me was what I found when the doors were opened: a terrier.(Do remember that Airedales are of the terrier breed, but that was not the reason for my grievance). THE REASON, however, was that I had seen a hounds eyes flash and now a terrier stood before me WITH the hounds eyes (as it was a terrier/basset mix). That explained the long bottom but not the sensation I had that Kirk Cameron would burst from the pup any moment. And since that day I have understood in my deepest consciousness that hounds eyes belong on hounds and hounds alone. They are simply too emotively human for lesser mutts to operate.

And of the eyes of hounds, the eyes of Ernie the hound are the most human there could be. I have no way of proving this too you empirically. All I have are a few photographs and as they would not be in context, they would mean nothing. So I cannot prove that when you take his muddy bone he looks at you with disdain. Or the joy that swells within him and sends clear radiant light from his deep, chocolately irises when he opens his stocking on Christmas morning. I can't even force you to understand the resentment that glares out at you when you bore him or tell an inappropriate joke. But you would do well to believe me as I am not the only one who's seen it.

And now, the final piece.

III. Ernie, Can You Hear Me?
On the evening of December 24, 2007 my family and I were in our living room snuggled and bundled on a frosty Christmas Eve reading our annual Christmas book, Bill Frog to the Rescue. Our three brown little heads were close together with Dad's gray snowglobe of a noggin in the center on my grandmother's yellow feather couch- all fluffy and warm. Ernie was on the floor. Afterall, I SAID the couch was yellow down. Person or no person, he has dirty feet. ANYWAY, in the middle of page 11, I looked over at Ernie (who true to his breed, can't stand to be alone or left out), and he was eyeing the green chair (also of goose feathers) adjacent to the yellow down couch as if he'd quite like to nestle into it. Reading his thoughts and feeling a bit bored, I decided to tell him "Go ahead Ernie, you can get up there" because:

A. It was Christmas and I wanted him to be comfortable
B. I SAID I was bored

With one quick nod Ernie looked from my approval to the green down chair. He reared back on his haunches as if to leap up and then soared through the Christmas night into the green down chair. He was immediately scolded and removed, probably in a great sense of confusion and injustice as he had just accepted my permission. POINT BEING: Yes, Ernie can hear me because Ernie speaks English. And I don't mean that he understands the simple imperative words and two-word phrases that your pup probably knows like "sit" and "roll over." My dog, Ernie Foster, can understand and respond non-verbally to fluent, conversational English. This is not the only incident of it at all.

More identity disputes to come in Ernie the Enigma Pt. II: Beagle or Basset?

Ernie's Brush With Death: 2002

Of all Ernie's adventures, the most serious by far was perhaps more misadventure on the part of a stupid ugly Airedale named Hell. I don't really know if that was his name, but that's what he brought to us one clear morning as Ernie the pup was taking a walk with my sister, Ridey, who is not to be crossed.

At this point in his life Ernie was only a few months old- still a handsome black all around his face- like a pharaoh in coloring and presence. We had previously learned from our vet that we had jumped the gun on his walks and that he was far too young and underdeveloped to be taking such long strolls. That explained the crying and we were very remorseful, (but we also thought it was funny). THE POINT IS, Ernie's walks at this time had been restricted to up and down the street in front of our house. On one such walk on the aforementioned day with the aforementioned formidable sister, Ernie met Hell. The following photograph, though not Hell specifically, shows you the militant stance of the morally corrupt breed.



Hell lived down the street and over a street and had no previous record of demonic and savage behavior. Ernie the pup took a few sniffs (as pups do) and Hell took a few sniffs back (as if he were a normal dog). AND THEN OUT OF NOWHERE HELL TOOK ERNIE'S FACE AND HEAD INTO HIS MOUTH IN A FURY AND BEGAN FEROCIOUSLY AND VIOLENTLY SWINGING HIS HEAD (WITH ERNIE'S HEAD IN HIS MOUTH) FROM SIDE TO SIDE TRYING TO RIP ERNIE TO SHREDS. WELL, Ernie of course was horrified and terrified but nullified by his tiny size and his shock. But as I told you, my sister Ridey is not to be crossed. This was her puppy being eaten and massacred blamelessly, and Ridey is known for an acute sense of sympathy for the underdog. This time it was all too literal to bear. So gallant 17-year-old Ridey kicked the crap out of Hell. She took her athletic and spry legs and kicked him as hard as she could in his stomach and chest. She beat that crime against nature in the head with Ernie's leash. She pummeled the murderous villain until he released. And poor Ernie the pup stood trembling- a beaten toddler with a hole in his nose like a beluga whale, terrified and stunned. Ridey scooped up our pup and ran into our house screaming for help and for justice. And we piled into the car, I with poor pup Ernie in the back, spouting with blood and choking on it (by the way dog blood smells awful- very strange smell- NOT good). He was thankfully treated by our vet, and the horrendous episode ended with three thankful people and a puppy that looked more like an anteater for a few weeks and wasn't so sure of himself anymore. BUT DON'T YOU WORRY, he got his confidence back. More to come.

***Author's note: It cannot go without saying that I, too, was attacked by another savage Airedale by the name of Duffy Perkins at the baby age of three. My mother watched horrified, much like Ridey, BUT WORSE BECAUSE I'M A PERSON, as I, having asked permission to pet Duffy Perkins, was thrown to the ground by a beast six times my size. He went for the neck, as all killers will, and my little white blouse with the Peter Pan collar was ripped to shreds as he, not being able to get to my neck BECAUSE DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I WAS GOING TO LET HIM, went for my chest instead. My three-year-old chest, covered in innocence and baby fat, was now covered in blood and animal savagery. I still remember the slam of my head against the street as he attacked. So let it be known that Airedales are the worst dogs in the world. Luckily, Ernie and I survived their attempts to ruin us.

Ernie's Humble Beginnings

At the plump age of 13 I convinced my parents that every child should have a puppy of their own at some point in their life. Thus the spark of Ernie was created, later to become a consuming and passionate fire that engulfed the hearts of my family, neighborhood and metro Louisville. Now I must mention that Ernie had a predecessor: Stonewall Foster. Stonewall was a true basset.

Born in 1981, he was my parents first child. He was the table we learned to lift ourselves up on as babies and our great protector against the dreaded Sue Johnson who came on Tuesdays and made my four-year-old sister watch soaps in the afternoons. ANYWAY, Stoney bit the dust after 12 years of begging and baying. In the end it was his nose that got him. The inside of a garbage can on Highway 1793 was the last thing he saw. Mom said at least he died happy. I was not consoled.

Between he and Ernie there was an ex-show dog named Pudgie who no one liked but my parents. Pudgie felt likewise. A cardigan welsh corgi, (the breed pictured though not Pudgie exactly). He had duck tape on his ears and fear in his eyes and he didn't last long. He met his fate one morning while running what we affectionately called the Pudgie 500.

He was only five. My mother still can't discuss it.

A few years passed, dogless and empty before I convinced everyone that another basset hound was imperative. Our dogish family had been without a dog for going on two years and that was unacceptable. So my dad made some calls and off we went to see a man about a dog on a puppy farm in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky.


Oh, what did you say? You've never heard of it? I'm scandalized. Because it just so happens that in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky there is a little road called Pumphouse that winds its way up up and up from the highway. And at the end of that seemingly desolate little road is a thing I am sure was taken straight from my wildest dreams-cages and cages of a hundred barking puppies. Black labs and basset hounds- the two best dogs on earth.

Now, to get specifically to the part where Ernie makes his grand entrance. In a little cage of bassets with a mother and father was a little pile of puppies. There were tri-colors and liver and whites. There were big ones and small ones. Fat ones and tall ones.
Sleepy and feisty and hungry and ornery.


And then I saw it- the one I had to have. I picked it up up and up and then held it close and breathed in its baby scent imagining all the things we would do together once this dog was mine. And then my father said "UH UH. That's a girl. We must have a boy. We MUST have a boy." And so as my soul broke into pieces I put my pup down. BUT THAT'S WHEN I SAW HIM. At the bottom of the puppy pile was another who looked JUST like the other. And I let my heart hope hope HOPE that it would have a wienie so I could keep keep KEEP IT. I reached into the puppy pile and pulled the tiniest little runt out from under all the other pups. And YES- a boy pup! And that was that. They took him and bathed him and gave him shots that made him cry. And I watched with my fat little 13-year-old face just dying to get him back. And when he was clean and dewormed like a new baby to its mother they put him in my arms. And I swaddled him in the only towel my mother would let me bring for a dog- a sick Tropicana Twisters one that was old as mold. And I held him like a baby for the next five months of his life swaddled and coddled. And that's how I found the best dog in the world.