There are dogs, and then there is Snoopy.
For many of us, Snoopy arrived long before we ever met a real dog. He lived on top of a red doghouse, typed novels that always began with dark and stormy nights, and somehow managed to be both wildly confident and deeply misunderstood. If childhood had a mascot, it might well have been a small white Beagle with black ears and very big thoughts.
Snoopy first appeared in Peanuts in 1950, created by the quietly brilliant Charles M. Schulz. At the start, he behaved like a fairly normal dog. He walked on all fours, thought mostly about food, and rarely stole the spotlight. Then something magical happened. Snoopy started thinking. Then dreaming. Then, completely ignoring reality when imagination felt more interesting.
By the 1960s, Snoopy was no longer just Charlie Brown’s dog. He was a World War I flying ace battling the Red Baron, a jazz-loving cool guy, an aspiring novelist, and occasionally a lawyer. His best friend was a tiny yellow bird named Woodstock, who communicated entirely in scribbles and vibes. Together, they taught us that friendship didn’t need words, just loyalty and shared nonsense.
Part of Snoopy’s magic is that he never spoke out loud. Everything he said happened in thought bubbles, which somehow made him feel more relatable. He worried about being appreciated. He felt ignored. He daydreamed about being more than he was. He was a dog, but he was also very human.
And yet, underneath the fantasy, Snoopy was unmistakably a Beagle.
Beagles are known for their noses, their optimism, and their ability to follow a scent with heroic determination while ignoring everything else. Snoopy embodied this perfectly. He marched through life assuming things would work out, usually in his favour, and if they didn’t, he’d simply imagine a better version.
Real Beagles share a lot of that spirit. They are curious, food-motivated, stubborn in a charming way, and surprisingly philosophical if you squint hard enough. Ask any Beagle owner, and they’ll tell you, this is not a breed that exists quietly in the background. They participate. Loudly.
Snoopy also captured another very Beagle trait: independence. He loved Charlie Brown, but he did not revolve around him. He had his own inner world, his own goals, and his own nap schedule. That independence is part of why Beagles feel so full of personality. You don’t own a Beagle so much as co-star with one.
For many families, Snoopy was also their first gentle introduction to dog ownership. He made dogs feel safe, funny, and emotionally rich. He showed us that dogs could have moods, preferences, grudges, and joy. He made us want one.
It’s no coincidence that Beagles became one of the most recognisable family breeds of the twentieth century. Compact, friendly, and expressive, they fit neatly into the post-war idea of home and hearth. Snoopy simply gave that image a soundtrack and a typewriter.
Watching old Peanuts specials now feels like opening a time capsule. The music, the pacing, the quiet moments. Snoopy dancing alone, utterly unbothered by what anyone else thinks, still feels like a small lesson in confidence. Beagles, after all, are rarely embarrassed. They are who they are, and that’s enough.
Of course, real-life Beagles are messier than cartoons. They shed, they howl, and they will absolutely follow a smell into trouble. But that’s part of the charm. Snoopy wasn’t perfect either. He procrastinated, he dramatised, and he occasionally forgot his responsibilities. He was aspirational, not instructional.
Perhaps that’s why Snoopy endures. He reminds us of a softer time, when imagination mattered, afternoons were long, and dogs could be heroes simply by being themselves. He represents the dog we wanted as children, and the dog we still smile at as adults.
And somewhere out there, a real Beagle is lying on a sofa, dreaming they are a flying ace.
Pickles’ Aside: I once dreamed I was famous, too. Then I woke up and ate a sock.