Masala vs. the Condo Lobby: A Beagle's Nose Meets Sathorn

Masala can smell a dropped samosa from forty metres. I know this because it has happened, in the lobby of our building in Sathorn, at eight in the evening, with half the residents in the lift lobby watching. A courier had dropped a paper bag, and before I could say a word my beagle had towed me across the marble, found the bag, and eaten the only thing inside, which was a samosa. Her tail was going like a metronome. The courier laughed. The concierge did not.

That was her third lobby incident in three buildings. I have since learned everything about beagles. They were bred to follow a scent to the end of the world, and a treat or a smell will always win over my voice. The word "come" is, to Masala, a polite suggestion. Her nose is simply louder.

At our first Wagdee meetup in Benjakitti Park, I was nervous. Everyone had a well-behaved dog, and there I was with a beagle who sang to every picnic basket. But the group was kind. One of the members, a quiet man with a Border collie, showed me a trick: practise recall with a long line and tiny pieces of chicken, in a boring place first, and only call her when I am sure she will come. A young woman with a Shiba told me she had the same problem and had just given up on off-lead walks entirely. We swapped stories for two hours, and the dogs ended up in a heap on the grass.

Since then, we have trained five minutes every evening. She now comes to a whistle in the hallway, in the park on a long line, and nearly always in the lobby. I carry a small pouch of treats in my pocket, the real smelly kind. In the lobby I keep her on a short lead, and I check the floor before I open the lift door. I have also learned to keep anything toxic well out of reach, because a nose like hers will find chocolate or onions in seconds, and our vet gave me a list of foods to avoid and a number to call.

On evening walks around Sathorn she stops at every lamp post to read the news, and nothing can move her. I used to be annoyed. Now I stand there, watching the traffic, taking a breath and letting her read the whole paper. She sings when the doorbell rings, not a bark but a long beagle aria. The neighbours have stopped complaining. They have started to wave.