Twice, on Thursday night, at near midnight, I chased my beagle around the front yard with a flyswatter—in my pajamas, barefoot, and in the rain. He was howling at something in the nearby pasture, something that wasn’t supposed to be there, probably a coyote. Twice, he started howling again as the front door closed behind him. He had chosen to howl from the front porch for two reasons, I supposed: one, it was dry; two, the acoustics reverberated the sound in such a way as to make his howl multiply in ferocity. It was after the second chase round the front yard, I realized my efforts were