The beagle has landed

There are still a few things I don’t understand. For instance, I don’t understand “fat free” half-and-half. Come on, isn’t that just fat-free milk?

Other things I don’t understand: All the intricacies of baseball’s balk rule, or how that Vons in Pasadena (across from Huntington hospital) manages to always have the best baked goods.

But what I really don’t understand is how Snoopy won the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show last week, the Super Bowl of Slobber.

How momentous was this? It was the first best-in-show win by a beagle in 132 years. Heck, even the hapless Chicago Cubs win a World Series every century or so. Beagles, they never win. Talk about a true underdog. Grrrrrrrrrrrr.

But last Tuesday, the applause for the tiny beagle was so thunderous, it was “as if Willis Reed had walked into the arena one last time,” according to the New York Times. The other finalists included such noble breeds as Australian shepherd, Akita and Weimaraner. Snoopy must’ve thought he’d wandered into an episode of “America’s Next Top Model.” Oops.

Let me describe the winning beast: His real name is Uno (though I prefer Snoopy). He has a face like a ski hill -- creamy white, with buttons for eyes. His coat is cashmere and he measures a mere 15 inches high. To put that in perspective, the sandwich I had for lunch yesterday was 15 inches long.

“He’s the most perfect beagle I’ve ever seen,” the judge said later. “If you saw him, you saw that perfectly smooth locomotion. Not one muscle went the wrong way. Look at his face. You melt right down.”

I’ve known several beagles, and I never sensed greatness. The lovely and patient older daughter bought a beagle a few years ago. Dumb as a piece of toast.

The daughter’s beagle has the worst sense of timing since McLean Stevenson left “MASH.” He tap-dances across the wooden floors while I try to watch “Friday Night Lights,” the best show on TV. Tap-tap-tap.

He also scratches to go out during the last two minutes of every Laker game. Scratch-scratch-scratch. If there’s an inappropriate time for something, this dog just seems to know it. On mornings I’m the most hung over, he gets up at 5. Tap-tap-tap. Scratch-scratch-scratch. . . .

Sure, I love him. I love him the way I love all creatures, even as he sits in my lap digesting his dinner, looking at me cross-eyed. He’s so dumb, he sometimes forgets to breathe, which leads to coughing fits and the Heimlich maneuver. I had to Heimlich him five times one day. He thinks we’re going steady and will one day marry.

True story: The other night, I’m watching “Peter Pan” with my youngest son, beagle in my lap, and I start carping about why Peter is often played by a woman -- Mary Martin, Cathy Rigby. It’s sort of weird, you know? And it raises all kinds of questions about fairness in the theater.

You know what the beagle says? Nothing. He has no idea what I’m even talking about. He just looks at me with those crossed eyes and starts wheezing again. Not one muscle goes the right way.

To me, this makes Snoopy’s accomplishments in New York last week all the more impressive. At Westminster, the crowd was with the dog all the way. They even cheered when he barked.

Ever heard a beagle bark? It’s the sound garbage trucks make. It’s the sound of leaky pistons grinding against rusty gears. If you ever made that gaspy noise, you’d turn red and apologize to everyone within 10 feet.

When the show was over, Snoopy celebrated with lunch at Sardi’s. Seriously, Sardi’s. I’ll bet he skipped the foie gras terrine. I’ll bet he went right for the trash bin in the back.

To put things in perspective, these are now the biggest upsets in history:

* David beats Goliath.

* Duke of Marlborough defeats the French army.

* Jets beat Colts.

* Lyle Lovett marries Julia Roberts.

* A beagle wins Westminster.

Sometimes, surprise is in the air. So bet the long shot in the derby. Pick the Cubs to win the pennant. Bet on Charlie Brown to finally kick that darned football.

Because Snoopy won a dog show. Anything can happen.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at [email protected]. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.