THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 17, 1995 TAG: 9509170048
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
LENGTH: Medium: 64 lines
Short of marriage or becoming a parent, there is a major step that occurs in almost every person's life. One giant leap that propels an individual from an easy-going existence of bachelorhood to the peak of domesticity.
Puppy ownership.
A little over a week ago, a two-month old beagle entered my life. We named him Bailey, as in Beagle Bailey. Because we got him on the day Lou Gherig's consecutive game streak was broken, his middle name is Calvin - for Cal Ripken.
From the reaction of family and friends, you would think I had become Ward Cleaver and Ozzie Nelson, all rolled into one. After all, those who know me are aware of housekeeping habits that resemble those of a bear with furniture. They remember someone whose most-frequently-asked question in relation to cooking is ``Do you deliver?''
My idea of cooking from scratch involves a simple recipe:
Call Domino's.
Wait 30 minutes, or until you hear the knock at the door.
Pay the man. Get the pizza.
Open the box.
Eat.
But now, according to my friends, I'm on the verge of appearing on ``Martha Stewart's Living,'' all thanks to a pup that fits in the palm of my hand
``South, soon you'll be drinking out of real glasses, and eating off real plates,'' one friend said. ``Why, the next thing you know, you'll be buying a Cuisinart, and watching Bob Villa on PBS.''
I replied that I didn't need a Cuisinart because I was quite happy with my Mazda. And I'd always heard that French cars weren't that dependable. And who does Bob Villa play for, anyway?
How was I to know a Cuisinart is something you use to puree stuff with? Whatever puree means. And Bob Villa does - dare I say it - HOME IMPROVEMENT.
So anyway, I'm learning all about beagles and responsibility these days. I know that despite the fact that Bailey is so small, he exercises a remarkable amount of power. We're training the dog to go outside to do his business, but even the slightest move toward wreaking havoc on the carpet sends us scrambling for him like he was about to discharge a nuclear bomb, or put a Slim Whitman CD in the stereo.
When he does the right thing, going outside to fertilize nearby bushes, we laud him like he had just been named a Rhodes Scholar. But instead of giving him a check, we give him a dog biscuit.
Normally, he's a very quiet dog. But when he howls, it sounds like a cross between The Ink Spots and a siren. Again we scramble, hoping to shut him up before everyone in a 10-block radius is roused from a sound sleep.
But the good things far outweigh the bad. After all, no matter how bad a day it's been, Bailey is always glad to see you, his tail wagging at the speed of a Gene Krupa drumstick, his tongue ready to lick your face.
There is a comfort in having a dog. He doesn't care what I write. He doesn't mind watching the Braves. All he does is eat, sleep, fertilize plants, and love everyone nearby.
It's a great deal.
But I'm no more domesticated than I was before we got him. I promise.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a roast in the oven. And Bob Villa is showing his television audience how to build a wet bar. by CNB