Not long after the avalanche, I’m driving Jill to Pennsylvania to pick up one of these little lovelies at a basset hound rescue shelter. If you’ve never spent time with a basset hound, there are five things you should know: 1) they love to bark and bark and bark and bark; 2) their bark is incredibly loud for such a seemingly small dog; 3) they follow their nose, which is second only to the bloodhound in sensitivity, which means that, when they are on the scent, they can’t be swayed; 4) they are sloppy, smelly dogs, fond of mud and water; and 5) they love to chase rabbits and other little furry creatures.

Cleo, the basset hound in question, is much smaller than Frieda, and much more attached to humans. She always wants to be with. She’d really like to be in your lap and she’s almost small enough to fit there. Because she is white and gold — with a white face — she looks older than she really is. She’s about 4. The story of her adoption is that she got hit by a car and her owners didn’t want to pay to have her broken leg fixed. “Just put her to sleep,” he said. The most notable thing about Cleo is that, if you’re near, she’s wagging her tail. We’ve never seen a dog wag her tail so much.

Why did I give in? Life is short. Cleo is sweet. I want Jill to be happy.
So we are back to 2 dogs and 2 cats. Wherever we sit, they join us, dogs settling at our feet, cats on our laps. It feels like we live in a swarm of fur.

At the basset shelter, we asked the owners to let the pack of bassets (and 2 corgies) into the yard so that we could play with them. I had never been stampeded by basset hounds before. I’d do it again in a minute. We laughed and laughed. Who’s better than a basset for noisy enthusiasm?

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It turned out that her injury wasn’t a sprain but, alas, bone cancer. In fact, such an agressive cancer that, within the space of three weeks, the tumor had announced itself with a buldge at her shoulder. The vet gave us three options: 1) amputate her leg up to the shoulder, with the prospect that the cancer would certainly occur elsewhere; 2) put her on pain medication to give her more time, maybe 6 months, with increasing complications and pain; or 3) put her down. Mind you, this happened within the space of a day: we took Frieda in at ten. By six we got the prognosis. By six-thirty, we were at the vet’s saying our final goodbyes to our dear old dog. She died in our arms, as the vet administered an overdose of an anesthetic to put her out of pain at last.

We got Frieda eight years ago from a rescue shelter. Jill had lost her ancient basset hound the year previous. So I knew something about basset hounds: they are stubborn dogs, ruled wholly by their noses. Second only to blood hounds, bassets have the best sense of smell — 1000 times greater than a human’s. When I say “ruled wholly by their noses,” I mean, actually, that they are rule by their stomachs and led by their noses. Granted, most dogs are ravenous and indiscriminate eaters. But bassets may be the most ravenous and indiscriminate. Frieda would eat anything and I made a video to prove it: What will Frieda eat? She loved lettuce, carrots, peanuts, bananas, celery, eggplant, avocado, cabbage, oranges, potatoes, tomatoes — even lemons. I was planning on making a video of Freida eating a lemon whole. She’d done it a couple of times. Whole oranges too. I defy you to name a food she would not eat. She loved apples most of all.

If you let a basset off its leash, it will happily trot away and, chances are, you’ll never see it again. There’s no such thing as separation anxiety with bassets. It’s not that they are unfaithful or unloving; they simply have other priorities — nose-specific priorities. Imagine a world that smells 1,000 times greater than what you smell right now. Imagine the heady, mind-reeling sensory overload carried on every breeze. Who wouldn’t want to pursue that? Just a couple of months ago, I forgot to latch our gate in the back yard and Frieda got out. I found her a block away in the company of a neighbor who was about to call the animal shelter. Bassets are sociable, even-tempered, and will go home with anybody (as long as there is the prospect of food).

So, when Jill said she really wanted to go see this basset hound that was living in a foster home, I balked. I said, “We don’t need a second dog [we already had a boxer/pit bull]. And we certainly don’t need a basset hound.”

“We’re just going to look,” Jill said. “What’s the harm in that?”

Jill often gets the best of me in arguments. Really, I should have known better because she’s never one to “just look.” She’s a woman of action. Which meant that, a few hours later, we were driving home with Frieda. I admit, Frieda was a beautiful dog. We called her the “classic basset,” well-proportioned, with huge white-stockinged paws, long silky ears, and soulful, caramel-colored eyes. She had been living in a house with 4 parrots, 3 cats and 2 other dogs. And she was fine with that. She liked a pack and she could get along with just about anybody, as long as she got first-dibs on food. You can’t make a basset wait for food.

From the start, Frieda was irrepressible and puppy-like. She ran long and hard, was always up for an adventure, and could not be taught much of anything. Second to beagles, bassets are the most unteachable dogs. They’re not dumb; they are strong willed. We knew Frieda wasn’t dumb because she learned to connive some surprising ways to get at food. She was so food-obsessed that she slept in the kitchen by choice. Unlike her “brother,” PJ, she wasn’t much interested in sleeping with us in the bedroom. There were too many good things happening in the kitchen. For example, if we left food too close to the kitchen counter’s edge, she could heave herself aginst the counter and then angle her snout onto the coutnertop and snatch something off. How about 3 piping hot baked potatoes in the space of a minute? How about 2 foot-long apple strudel? How about an entire roasted chicken, truss string included, and not a speck left — all within five minutes?

Occasionally, we’d catch her in the act. Then she’d take off in a gallop. This afforded her enough time to down the stolen food, at which point she’d stop abruptly, swallow hard, then promptly roll over for an endearing surrender. Too often, we didn’t catch her in the act. We learned to listen to the bang of her hefty body against the cabinets and the rattle of her collar. Then I’d scramble downstairs, at which point she’d adopt the most innocent pose, glancing up at me in surprise, as if to say, “What’s happening?” Often her mouth would be full of something. But she knew better than to chew when we were watching. If I was especially suspicious, I’d have to make an inspection. One time, I pulled a whole carrot from her mouth. Another time a whole potatoe. Yes anothe time, a frozen sausage. You get the idea. Usually, though, I was too late. She ate a lot of stuff without chewing.

Jill often laughed at “the special realtionship” I had with Frieda. I believe dogs should obey certain rules and Frieda wasn’t one for following anybody’s rules. One of my rules is “people first.” That means that we humans get to enter the house first. No dogs barreling past us (and knocking us down in the process). I taught Frieday to wait outside the door until I gave the okay for her to enter. Still, she learned to bump open the door with her snout if my back was turned to her or I was unattentive for even a minute.

Jill and I have lots to laugh about when we recall the times we shared with Frieda. She truly enriched our lives. And now we must put her to rest in our memories. But we’re going to be haunted for a while. Her bed is sitll in the kitchen. For a long time, I am sure, we will find ourselves anticipating her howl outside the porch door, the clatter of her claws across our wood floors, her groans of pleasure as she rolled around on our dining room carpet, her weight against our feet as we sit at the kitchen table, her sloppy troughing at the water bowl, her head butt against our calves as we prep food at the ktichen counter — “manna from heaven” we called the vegetable scraps we let fall to her: what a magical world it was for Frieda!

I know more than a few people who, after losing a beloved pet, refuse to get another. I understand this. To lose a pet is to lose a family member. And it seems there is only so much pain a single human life can contain. Still, there are too many pets without homes and, really, they don’t ask for much. I like to think that we bring a dog as much pleasure as it brings us. Admittedly, it’s a short-lived bargain and one that never ends happily. But that is what makes it all the sweeter. We gave Frieda our best and she, in turn, gave us hers (which isn’t the same as saying that she was well-behaved). When it was time to let her go, we held her fast until the end, and she must have known — if she knew anything — that this loving embrace was the best that we could give.

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Brussels sprouts belong to the family of Misunderstood Vegetables. It is THE most unpopular vegetable in Britain — probably because the Brits don’t know how to cook them. Cooks of older generations boiled Brussels sprouts. Boiling does justice to no food except pasta or eggs. Vegetables should never, ever, be boiled. I think most cooks nowadays have learned this lesson. Jill and I like ours steamed and then slathered with butter, with plenty of salt and pepper. A little dill gives them extra punch. I also like them chopped up (after steaming) with butter and soy sauce.

As the name suggests, Brussels sprouts originated in the Netherlands. Why, nobody knows. The French brought them to America, which makes sense because 1) the French will eat anything and 2) the French never hetitate to boast of their latest, odd food find: Oh, pardonnez moi, but I have just found thees splendid leetle nugget that, when fried, is oh-so-heavenlee! It ees, how you say, a squirrel turd? Webster mentions Brussels sprouts in his early dictionary: he calls them “delicate,” as in “small.” Brussels sprouts are not miniature cabbages, though your mother might have told you this to charm you into eating the things. They are in the cabbage family, though, and, like cabbage and broccoli, are cruciferous, which means they’re high in anti-oxidants and good at preventing cancer. As we are making menus for Thanksgiving, we should give this hearty, humble vegetable some consideration.

If you have never had truly fresh Brussels sprouts, cut from the stalk, you owe it to yourself to go out and find them. Apparently they are easy to grow, which means you don’t have to submit yourself to buying a container of wilted two-week-old sprouts that have been trucked across the country. If you have a dog, you can feed them the stalk. Most dogs will look upon it as a bone and chew it down happily. Frieda, our Basset Hound, loves the stalk of Brussels Sprouts.

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The mice got in because I had opened holes in the walls on two floors to run some new electricity. (If you’ve got an old house, you’ve got mice in your walls.) I had left the walls open for nearly a week because it’s too hot to work. We’ve stopped doing all of the chores we normally do around the house in the summer. Our window-unit air-conditioners aren’t especiallly good. They sort of keep us cool, the house temps hovering about 80-84 degrees. Outside offers no relief, even at night. Last night I was watering the front yard at 1:00 A.M. and one of my neighbors trudged by walking her four greyhounds. “It’s the only time we’re comfortable,” she said, “and even this is hardly good enough.”

Jill and I have cabin fever, I’ve decided. Sure, cabin fever is usually associated with being cooped up in winter. But it applies to a bad summer too. We got so desperate for relief that we took the dogs to the woods late yesterday and went wading in one of the Gunpowder creeks. Frieda, our basset hound loves to swim. All of us got plenty wet. Then we stopped to pick raspberries. When we got home, despite the heat — or, rather, to defy the heat — Jill and I made raspberry pies. That’s not exactly ideal food for this weather but we didn’t complain.

There’s no relief in sight for this too-hot Baltimore summer, I’m afraid. And, for the next couple of weeks, you can bet that Jill and I will be a bit jumpy in the house — until the cats evacuate all of our little visitors. Just now we caught another: I chased it into an empty tomato sauce can. Jill was going to help me bag it but then it leapt away when Jill recoiled at the sight of its tail draped over the can edge — Eek!  ”Oh, well,” I said, “we’ll get it eventually.” Jill laughed and laughed. I love a woman with a sense of humor.

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My groceries parked, I went upstairs to see Jill. She was on the internet, reading about Hartford, CT, which we’re going to visit next week. I checked my own email. Ten minutes later, we both went downstairs to put away the groceries.

The first thing I noticed was that the cardboard carrier for the roasted chicken container was lying on the floor. I knew this was trouble. Frieda, our basset hound, is notorious (in our household) for stealing food from tables and countertops. I thought I’d put the chicken in a safe place, six inches from the counter’s edge. Frieda isn’t a big dog, but she’s long and, where food is concerned, she’s willing to stretch. Jill and I have been amazed at her ability to get things she really wants from hard-to-reach places.

This time, we were doubly amazed. Within the span of ten minutes, she had not only sneaked the chicken — quietly — from the countertop, but then carried it into the pantry, where she wouldn’t be heard. And then she ate the entire chicken. She left nothing behind, not even a nib of bone. Ten minutes.

Jill and I howled in protest and moaned our regret and frustration. Frieda just stared up at us expectantly, wagging her tail. She was still hungry. Since we had NOT caught her in the act, we couldn’t scold or punish her. But we were pissed off, me especially, as I had to make dinner.

What made it all the more painful for us was the fact that Frieda doesn’t exactly enjoy eating—it’s not like she takes her time or savors the flavor. She just gobbles down whatever she can as fast as she can. This is a dog that will eat her own turds on occasion. Now, let me confess that we have had Frieda on a diet. She was getting heavy, which can cause basset hounds back problems. But, the truth is, she was just as ravenous when she wasn’t dieting as she is now.

Basset hounds are all nose. They want nothing but food, it seems, and will spend most of their waking hours sniffing it out and then go to any lengths to get at it. The only good thing about this trait, at least in Frieda’s case, is that she’ll eat anything –really, anything–you give her. This comes in handy when she needs medicine. Hand her a pill, any kind of pill, and she’ll eat it without hesitation. If you want to see an example of her appetite, check out this video:what will Frieda eat?

After Frieda ate the whole chicken, we worried that she might have some problems digesting her treat. She had a perceptible bulge in her belly but she slept well and, apparently, she’s not going to suffer either indigestion or constipation. She possesses exceptional genes, we have decided–survivor genes. She’s a dog that could live through strive and famine and nuclear war because she will not be thwarted. In her way, Frieda is a super dog.

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