It recently occurred to me that I have never written about my favorite dog, Scoopy, who lived with us for 16 years.

Readers often tell me that their favorite columns are those I have written about dogs. And yet it recently occurred to me that I have never written about my favorite dog, Scoopy, who lived with us for 16 years.

I told my girlfriend, Darl, that I would marry her if she’d let me have a beagle rabbit-hunting dog. She agreed but with some reluctance. After the honeymoon, I came home with a six-week-old beagle puppy. I named him Scoopy. Within minutes, he won the heart of Darl.

We had no idea what an adventure that critter was to become in our lives.

Our first mistake was to let him into our bed at night when he cried for his mother at his tiny age. For 16 years after that, we pushed him out of our bed and listened to his growls of dog cursing as he left. But the minute we said “good night” to each other, back onto the bed came Scoopy—there for the night.

He loved to chase and return a ball and one time I put the ball away long enough to build a Christmas tree stand. With the tree up, I grabbed some tinsel and did a baseball windup to throw them onto the tree. Scoopy thought I had thrown his ball. He dove into the tree and the whole structure came crashing down. Darl was not impressed. She got even less impressed when she lost her favorite watch only to find it one year later where Scoopy had buried it in a flowerpot. It was still running.

Scoopy soon became a great hunter. He was sired by field champions and had a long, mournful howl you could hear for a mile. I could fill this magazine with Scoopy hunting stories but my favorite was the time a State Trooper friend, Harold Janiszewski, suggested we take Scoopy to a northern area of Isabella County where there were a few snowshoe rabbits—the big kind of rabbit that never holes up but runs forever in a wide circle. Scoopy soon tracked one. I missed it on the first time around. Ski missed it on the second time around. On the rabbit’s third circle, Ski shot it. We stood there by the dead rabbit as Scoopy came howling to the scene. He skidded to a stop, looked at the rabbit and then raised his head to his loudest howl ever before laying down totally bushed. He seemed to be saying: “You guys are bad shots, I’m exhausted.”

Scoopy’s most famous rabbit chase occurred right in the city of Mount Pleasant. Each night about 11 p.m., I let him out the front door of our home to do his thing. He always went to a maple tree to lift his leg. One night, with a fresh snowfall on the ground, a rabbit came by. Scoop howled and the chase was on. The rabbit went through backyards and garages as I put on some clothes to chase the chaser. Lights came on all over the neighborhood, but the worst part came two blocks away when the rabbit circled the hospital—two times. Scoopy’s howl brought several calls to the police and soon a patrol car driven by Ray Shoe, another of Scoopy’s hunting pals. Officer Shoe pulled out his pistol and took aim.

“I’m gonna shoot the rabbit,” he said. I talked him out of that for fear it would wake up the whole town. I finally saw the rabbit running under a pine tree. I ran there and hid until Scoopy came tracking by. I dove in the snow and caught him by a hind leg.

Like most beagles, Scoopy often escaped to wander the night. The phone would ring and the cops would say: “We got Scoopy again. He is sleeping in the chief’s in-basket.” All the cops loved Scoopy and often took him hunting.

Some nights, though, he would go to that stinking old millpond and come home smelling like the world’s worst garbage. Darl remembers losing her cookies while cleaning him up.

Scoopy’s second love was to chase pheasants. One time, Darl and I were driving to Alma on the highway at 65 miles an hour on a summer day with the windows open. A big pheasant flew across in front of us and, suddenly, Scoopy dove out the car window. He hit the pavement and rolled, tumbled and skidded a long way. I backed up expecting to find a dead dog. He sat there shivering and licking bare spots where his hair was ripped off. No broken bones. He was a quick learner and he never did that again.

He also got a big shock from a farmer’s electric fence and for the rest of his life he never got closer than 2 feet from any fence.

He hated cats but he loved our cat, Agate. They played and slept together.

Agate often jumped up on the kitchen counter to throw chicken bones and other scraps down to the floor for him.

Scoopy was a real garbage gut. He ate everything but spinach. He would eat greasy tinfoil but refused spinach. He made many trips to the vet because of the things he ate. He ate all of our backyard tomatoes and strawberries. Whenever Darl rattled the carrot peeler, he came running. He would eat a whole bag of carrots if you left them within his reach and you were gone from the house.

But Scoopy grew old and one day Dr. F. O. Grounds said: “I can do no more for him, Jim. I know this is a sad moment for you and you can see by my own tears that it is sad for me. Scoopy has long been my friend, too. Instead of focusing on the sadness of his leaving, remember all the good and pleasurable things he brought to your life while here.”

I cried often for days and didn’t care who saw my tears. Now, some 40 years later, I realize the truth in what Dr. Grounds said. Great memories, all so special. When I came home from a bad day at work and laid down on the couch, Scoopy always hopped up and put his head in my hand for a scratch of his ears. Suddenly, the world was okay again.