Abbey Q. Howley

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Ch- ch- ch- changes

Andy and I have been driving one another increasingly nuts, so… we’ve decided to split up.

Did I get you?

No, not split up like that. Here’s what I mean: we’ve decided that being in the same French class is no longer benefitting either one of us (yes, in terms of learning French, we are driving one another nuts), so on Tuesday I’m moving to a different class. And because I’m moving out, some new people will be moving in, so Andy will have a different class dynamic too.

Patience, my friends

This should be the motto of the Foreign Service.

It seems we won’t have any information about what the tandem couplehood gods plan to bestow upon us for quite some time. My Career Development Officer wants to wait until Andy’s actually on the Register before we explore the possibilities. That could happen as soon as two months from now or as long as two years from now; you just never know for sure with security clearances. Mine took four months, so we’re banking on revisiting this topic in early January…

SOS!

Help! Somebody! Please! This is Abbey, by the way. First, a warning for all you diplo-pets out there: don’t believe it for a second when your owners tell you not to worry, that you’re not going to be boarded this time. (Boarding=jail, in case you haven’t learned that one yet.) Don’t believe it when they say that you’re just going on a little vacation and it’s actually going to be a ton of fun. Let me assure you, it’s not.

For reasons I simply cannot comprehend (wedding, airplane, out of town… I don’t know or care what any of that means), my owners have abandoned me in a house that, yes, is much bigger and nicer than my house. And yes, it has two very nice people who seem to like me a lot, inexplicably, since I am being a pretty big jerk to them. And yes, there is a deck and a yard. And lots of toys. But before you start thinking this place couldn’t possibly be so bad, let me cut to the chase.

I’m living with dogs! Two dogs. Beagles. Who bark. And want to play with me. And want to sniff me. And who can’t take a hint that I don’t like other dogs and just want to be left alone to sleep. And who also steal attention from those two very nice people, who I’d prefer to have all to myself.

Just because boy owner won some big test, he thinks he can do whatever he wants now, abandoning me like this. Well, I’ve got news for him: if I ever see him again, I’m chewing three socks as punishment. Maybe four. That’ll teach him.

But in the meantime, I’m serious: can someone come get me? Someone without any dogs? And no cats either. Please?!

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I’m as guilty as anyone as spoiling a pet.

Meet Abbey. From the first day we had her (yep, this was it), she set the rules.

The evidence? Well, first of all, there’s that rule thing. Every one we initially established (no bed, no couch, no human food) was quickly abandoned. Also, I talk to her. When she’s not around, I talk about her. Probably 90% of the pictures I take are of her. And my social life pretty much revolves around her too: Beagle meet-ups, swimming expeditions, etc.

I haven’t resorted to clothing her yet, but who knows, that may be coming. Although Andy and I initially chuckled at these life-jacket wearing doggers, I soon got to thinking, “If she’s ever comes swimming with us in Benin, maybe that’s not such a bad idea…”

I kind of understand dogs wearing life jackets when they're actually swimming. Kind of. But these dogs were going on a boat with tall walls separating them from water of any kind.

And speaking of dogs going on boats…

We take them (even the huge ones) on cruises.

This Saint Bernard enjoyed a cruise with other canine friends.

And this dog got dressed up for a Halloween parade.

So, yes, many of us spoil our furry friends, but I wonder: how much is this an American phenomena?

When researching potential posts, I remember reading with shock that dogs are so despised in certain parts of the world that you can’t walk them in public without being showered with sticks and rocks. (I think it was Malaysia, but my memory could be failing me.)

I’d love to hear about your experiences with pets overseas — both local views about pet ownership and treatment of the pets we bring.

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Okay, not home. Not my home, anyway. But to West Virginia nonetheless.

I have to admit that I never thought I’d consider West Virginia a prime vacation destination, but when I began searching for places less than three hours away, it quickly emerged as a strong candidate. And when we found a lovely little hotel, the deal was sealed. (Plus, there may have even been an outlet mall on the way, but shh! Andy doesn’t know the stop was premeditated.)

The lovely Hillbrook Inn. I've unfortunately become kind of a hotel snob as result of the five-star properties I stayed in for my last job at a travel company, but this is definitely up to par (and without the five-star prices). Highly recommended.

Like any good centuries-old mansion, it has nooks and crannies galore, including this tunnel that led to our room.

Tubing on the Shenandoah. "My kind of rafting," says Andy. "The kind where you sit around and do nothing."

Flea markets galore. No good finds, but plenty of good people watching.

Mmm. Fresh fruit.

We also explored Charles Town (founded by the lesser Washington brother), Harpers Ferry (meh… kind of reminded us of the Annapolis experience) and had a great dinner in the tiny dining room at our hotel (think high ceilings, dark wood, mismatched antiques, capacity of 15). Sadly our camera broke, so you don’t get to see any of that.

But you do get to see this, taken back at home with our other camera.

After two nights in jail (otherwise known as boarding), Abbey was thrilled to come home and reclaim her throne. She was also thrilled with her two new toys (otherwise known as apologies), both of which have been in her mouth ever since.

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My owners tell me the word “beagle” comes from the French word “begueule,” which means “open throat” or “loudmouth.”

Ain’t that the truth.

So imagine what happens when you stick a bunch of us together on a boat…

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I guess some dogs like to swim.

I guess some dogs like to swim.

Me, I'm not so sure.

But I'll give it a try.

It got too deep!

Where'd you guys go?

No, don't push me! I don't like this!

This is not fun.

Can you see the fear in my eyes?

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I'm not in this picture -- not that you can probably tell.

Beagles came from near and far for a very important gathering at an Arlington dog park. The top agenda item: how to get rid of those pesky things called cats once and for all.

After a meet-and-greet session of howling, digging and sniffing, we got down to business. Discussions started off well. In fact, all 15 of us were close to a consensus — until a squirrel ran through the park. Needless to say, the remainder of our agenda was tabled.

Our talks will resume in a few weeks on a boat cruising along the Potomac River, where there will be no squirrels to distract us. Yes, there’s such thing as a canine cruise. It happens every Thursday all summer. (Why didn’t someone tell me about this sooner?)

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The DNA results are in: I’m not part basset hound (like everybody thinks), just a fat beagle. I still don’t understand why my owners needed to poke my mouth to find this out, though. That was annoying. And besides, haven’t they heard my howl? Definite beagle.

So, anyway, can we now move on to more important things? Like, what’s this I hear about a cage and an airplane? My official position on that — “Not happening.”

You can't leave me if you can't get up.

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…although I’m bringing the Empire State Building with me.

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Now that I’m going to be a diplo-pet, I’m on a quest to meet dogs of all breeds and backgrounds. True, I howl and growl at every dog I see back in my native New York (I don’t discriminate; I dislike them all equally), but on the road for the past few weeks — crossing state borders, no less — I’ve been trying to be more open-minded.

First, I met my cousins: two dogs who live in a land called Ohio. They are a kind of dog called boxer, which as far as I can tell just means huge and slobbery. And they like to sniff stuff, including me. I tried so hard to get away, but they just kept charging me. I was so miserable with those boxers that I didn’t even notice the cat, who I’m sure was horrible too, judging by every other cat I’ve met. The only good thing about Ohio was a local foodstuff called “Snausage.”

Plus, I had to help drive.

Then I crossed into Illinois and spent a few nights with two dogs called golden retrievers. The old one was okay but the young one liked to jump on me. I barked and barked at her to get off but it did no good. I had to climb on tables to save myself! Humph. No respect for her elders. I could live without that golden retriever. You know what else I could live without? The cat that pounced on me in the middle of the night. I let out a howl that could probably be heard by those Ohio boxers.

Across another border, in Missouri, there was a tan chihuahua. His owners fed him a foreign food that was very good. It was wet. (In my native New York, food only seems to come in the dry variety.) This little chihuahua was slow enough that I could steal his delicious wet food, so he’s alright by me.  Then two tiny, fluffy black dogs joined us. And get this: they come from a neighborhood called “Dog Town”! But in Dog Town they seem to speak in a yippy little bark that I don’t know, and not even the chihuahua could translate it for me. I just assumed they were saying, “Eat my wet food too,” and so I did.

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