Just before dawn this morning Katie the Beagle erupted into the most mournful howl I have ever heard*, the sort of blood-curdling howl that could only come from a hound suffering a broken heart.
Katie's awful howl woke both Monique and I from deep sleeps instantly. Monique reached down to pet her and to find out what was wrong ... and Katie woke up. She had been sleep-howling.
I hate to think of the beagle dream that created that howl. I prefer to think that Katie mostly dreams about happily chasing rabbits through grassy meadows. And indeed, most of her other sleep activities are limited to the occasional scurry of feet or somnabulent yip that would accompany such a dream. I like that our little rescue beagle is a much happier, much more secure pooch than when she arrived in our world fifteen months ago. So I hate to think that anything from her past might still haunt her.
I'm sure anybody who heard that pre-dawn howl would have considered it an ominous portent. When we all got up for good a couple of hours later, Katie seemed as happy and carefree as ever. But I have to admit that I've been a bit spooked all day by the memory of that sound.
*How awful was Katie's howl? If werewolves on the moors of Scotland had heard that howl they would have said, "Let's go back inside. It's way too spooky out here." If Alan Ginsburg had heard that sound he would've changed the name of his masterwork from "Howl" to "Mild Complaint." Tornado sirens across the county have been handing in their resignations all day saying, "We've got nothing."
No kidddin'. It was terrible. I've heard Katie howl before and it doesn't compare. I had no idea such a little dog could make such a sad, horrifying noise, and I would prefer to never hear it again.