Ever since I made this photo the screensaver on my computer, my editor has been telling me I should write a column to explain it. I suppose he’s right, since my pudgy pooch cannot tell the story himself.

It’s not so much a whale of a tale how our dog came to get his head stuck inside a box of cheese crackers. But catching him in the act, and getting a picture to prove it, does show how enormously challenging it can be to fight the battle of the bulge with a beagle.

Beagles don’t make new year’s resolutions to watch their diets or stop snacking between meals. If anything, beagles resolve each year to eat more than they ate the year before, so I had to put Bugsy on a diet myself.

It’s really more of a lifestyle change than a diet. It started this fall when we left him in the yard one beautiful Sunday morning and returned a few hours later to find that someone hadn’t quite latched the gate. Bugsy came running from down the street and greeted us in the front yard, proud of his escape and of the fact that he had been free to eat a neighbor’s garbage.

A few hours later, pride gave way to puking. A few days later, it was pancreatitis. I didn’t know a dog could even get pancreatitis, and what I didn’t know almost killed poor Bugsy.

The vet who saved his life gave me a pretty stern warning about how I needed to keep Bugsy’s weight down and avoid “people food.” No more leftover turkey or pizza.

“My dog had pancreatitis twice after my in-laws gave him leftovers,” the vet said. “Now I tell them, ‘Feed him anything you want. Just make sure you leave $1,000 on the table.’”

Knowing Bugsy’s appetite had nearly cost him his life, I decided to gather the family around the table for a meeting of sorts.

“From now on,” I said, “Bugsy only eats dog food, nothing else.”

“He’s old and he’s neutered,” my husband countered. “Food’s all he’s got.”

Still, we decided to try. But I’m afraid our best efforts to turn our errant beagle around have ended up turning him from a beggar into a thief. One day he swiped half a sandwich right off the table. Another day it was a couple of chicken strips still in the box. When the pantry door was left open, he helped himself to a blueberry muffin. If he found the dishwasher open, he’d try to lick the plates. And what he tried to eat in the back yard is not suitable to mention in a family newspaper.

While I was writing my last column, I was snacking on some Whales crackers. When I left the room, Bugsy made his move. Imagine my husband’s reaction when he walked in and saw what appeared to be a box of cheese crackers waving through the air. It was empty and stuck on Bugsy’s head.

This latest move, coming right before Christmas, put Bugsy on the naughty list. I decided I had to be more vigilant about his diet. I warned my sons to keep the pantry closed and make sure they didn’t leave bags of chips beside the television. When I cooked dinner, I was careful not to let so much as a grain of rice hit the floor for fear that Bugsy would eat it.

Things seemed to be going well until the other night when Bugsy raced downstairs ahead of me toward a small, round object on the floor in front of the door stopper. Before I could yell, “Don’t eat that; it’s rubber,” he was already chewing.

I skipped the last step, dropped to my knees and began prying Bugsy’s mouth open.

“It’s rubber!” I screamed, for no apparent reason. “Spit it out!”

Bugsy, looking terrified, broke free and ran for his favorite chair, with me chasing behind him. He sat down and swallowed.

I yanked at his mouth again, trying the “finger sweep” technique I learned in CPR to see if there was any of this thing left in his mouth. I even pounded him on the back, but it was no use.

Then I heard laughter coming from upstairs.

“It’s not funny,” I called to my two sons. “He’s already had pancreatitis once. Now he’s eaten a rubber door stopper.”

“Mom,” my son said, “it was a marshmallow.”

Poor Bugsy looked confused as to why I would try to beat him up and steal his miniature marshmallow when there was a whole bag of them in the pantry.

Too bad he couldn’t tell the story himself. I bet it would be a whale of a tale.

Contact Kim Grizzard at kgrizzard@reflector.com or (252) 329-9578.