You may call me, "Minty Fresh."

I'm sitting there, reading and minding my own business, when Tommy jumps up on my lap and burps in my face.

It's not an uncommon move on his part, and usually, those burps will frost the lenses in your spectacles. So, I snap my head to the side. But, out of the corner of my nose, I catch a whiff that says, “Something is wrong here.”

I slowly turn back to Tommy. “Dog, was that a bit of a peppermint cloud?”

Tommy jumped down and backed out of breath range before answering. “I don't know what you mean.”

I got up and went to check in the living room and kitchen. My mind recalling that nephew David had tied a nice eight inch candy cane into the ribbon on his gift to us, and that we had put the candy up on the look through counter so as to enjoy it later. Sure enough, it was missing. Sort of. A brief look around led to the chewed-up remnants of the cellophane, and about one inch of remaining candy stick, in the “chewing place” on the couch.

“Tommy, how did you get that? It was clear up on the high counter.”

“Yeah, thanks, once in a while I like a challenge.”

Then I noticed that a dining room chair had been left within three feet of the counter. A stepping place.

Tommy continued, “Besides, you have no proof I took anything.”

“WHAT?! There's the cellophane and last bit of candy with dog tooth marks, there's your peppermint breath, and there are the little shards of crushed candy still sticking in the fur around your muzzle. THAT'S proof.”

“Circumstantial. You couldn't get a St. Louis Grand Jury to indict on that flimsy evidence.”

“Tommy, you are shameless. Did you even share with Tuppence?”

Tuppence spoke up, “No. Smell my breath.”

I pushed her away, “No thanks. I'll take your whine for it.”

Exasperated, I turned back to Tommy. “When are you going to learn to leave people food alone?”

He hooted. “When are you going to learn there's no such thing as people food?”

I sighed. “OK,” I said, “at least this theft left you with nicer breath for a while.”

He smugly said, “You may call me 'Minty Fresh.'”

“I'll call you a four-legged Hoover.”

Walking away, he said, “By the way, you might want to think of buying more of those mint sticks, Coffee Breath.”

It hurts when a butt sniffer criticizes your oral hygiene.  

Merry Christmas

For the holidays, the Posse and friend wishes you Joy, Warmth, Happiness, and the love of good dogs.

The Posse Picks a Theme Song.

Tommy strolled through humming. His pitch wasn't very good, but then I have no way of judging how good beagle intonation usually is.

“Tommy, what's that noise.”

“Now that we're getting more well known on the interwebs, Tuppence and I have decided the Beagle Posse needs a theme song.”

“You've been using our collection of Broadway music to find one, haven't you?”

“We found one.”

“If you mean that version of the Lion King theme you are humming, I don't think you've found it yet. A lion is a cat, you know.”

“A cat?”

“A cat.”

Tuppence rushed in, “How about “Don't Rain on My Parade” from FUNNY GIRL?”

“Well, I know you don't like rain, Tuppy. You won't go out for 'bidness' in it.”

Tommy snapped, “Too girly. Too girly. I want, “When You're a Jet,” from WEST SIDE STORY.” He began what he thought was a street-wise, manly swagger. (Tommy is always concerned about his Street Cred. Or Patio Cred, since he isn't allowed in the street.)

I said, “Tommy, boy, I don't think you can pull that off. An important part of the performance is finger clicks. Look at your front paws. You don't have the digital arrangement to snap fingers.”

“OK, OK. Then something from PORGY AND BESS. It's as classic as are we.”

“Yeah, 'Summertime,” said Tuppence. “Our favoritest time. Full of squirrels, chipmunks, birds, and a warm outdoor bathroom.”

“No, jazzier,” said Tommy. “How's 'bout, “ 'Tain't Necessarily So'? Like Sportin' Life sings it. Then we'll look like intellectual agnostics.”

“Tommy, I don't think anything is going to make you look intellectual. Especially not a song filled with bad grammar.”

“We'll look smart compared to the chihuahua up the street.”

“Our mailbox looks smart compared to that pooch.”

Tuppence is musing. “Come to think of it, the Labradors kind of claim all rights to theme songs from PORGY AND BESS.”

She continued, “Lot's of good choices from FIDDLER ON THE ROOF.”

Tommy began to shudder. “No way! I'm not getting the operation to be a Jewish dog.”

“Well,” I said, “it can't be worse than the one you already had.”

“You caught me by surprise on that one.”

“Hey,” I said, “How about Sondheim? I think ;Send in the Clowns' would be the perfect theme for you two.”

Tuppence began a low growl. “You do remember our teeth, don't you?”

“All right. Bad idea. Let's work this through with logic. 'Beagle' is a form of an old English term for bugle, because of the voice you guys have. And you DO use that voice. A bugle is a brass horn. And, after you steal slices of pizza, you make other, deeper toots that come from your other 'speaker'. You make stereo music. So, the perfect Broadway song theme for you two is, 'Seventy-six Trombones.” I sat back, quite proud of my reasoning.

The Beagle Posse sniffed in unison, and just turned and walked dismissively away. I could swear I heard Tommy begin to hum the theme from JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR. I don't look forward to a discussion of theology and blasphemy with a brace of hounds. I also have to figure out how the hell beagles are working an i-pod.

The Battle of Freestone Gulch

We return once again to the thrilling days of yesteryear and the Edenic verdancy that is South East Asia.

“Hinges,” said Chappy.

“Gonna be,” replied Looie.

In GI shorthand, the corporal and the Lieutenant had just agreed that the day was going to be hotter than the hinges on the gates of Hell. The platoon was saddling up for a Sweep—a slog through muddy paddies and jungle patches full of wait-a-minute vines. The latter have so many stickers on them that as you brush by, they grab your pants or shirt and make you wait a minute while you untangle.

The point of the day's sweep was not to find any VC. In fact, all on the hike were planning to do everything possible to avoid seeing Charlie. The point was to find ammunition caches. Charlie would move in stocks of mortar rounds and rockets close to the base so that they'd be at hand on the night of an attack. The companies on the base had to take turns sending out platoons to see if they could blunder through the countryside and stumble on and destroy these. Being out in what the troops called “Indian Country” for a few hours in 105 degrees and 200% humidity was not a fun way to spend the day. Not the least reason being that though we didn't want to find Charlie, Charlie didn't want us to find the ammo, and would sort of “discourage” us from the sweep if he could. He had claymore, RPG, and AK discouragers at hand. “What'll we do if we find a cache, Sarge?”

“Blow it up.”

“Hell, Sarge, that's all Charlie's gonna do with it. We could stay home.”

At noon, having found nothing, the platoon stopped for lunch. A gourmet repast out of C-Ration packs that one veteran described as “tastes like the back seat of a NY taxi.”

There were bright spots in the Cs, and with the luck of the draw, you might get one. The Beanie Weinies weren't too bad, and the fruit cocktail, and canned pound cake were ok. But the prize of prizes was a can of peaches. C rat cans of peaches were so valuable that I never saw a GI trade one for anything—not even pot or sex.

Chappy got the winner that day. And he waxed poetic as to the glories of the sweet golden gems and how they'd fare in his mouth. “In fact,” he said, “I'm not gonna eat these now. I'm going to save them for tonight.” And he tucked the small, olive-drab painted can under the top flap of his olive-drab pack. That placement, and those colors under the rice paddy sun, become important in only a couple of hours.

There was never any attempt at stealth on one of these sweeps. In fact, we did not want to surprise anyone. Make enough noise and let them slip away. So, the next couple of midday hours were spent slogging line abreast, to search the most area, shouting rude/crude jokes, listening to the black guys “do the dozens” ('Hey, Homer, Yo Mama so poor, doesn' she have her face on Food Stamps?'), and singing snatches of songs. Mostly of two songs. The first, the GI Anthem, “We Gotta Get Outa This Place.” The other, the jingle from the Army recruiting commercials back in the world, “If You're Good Enough to Get In.” ('Back in the world' mostly meant the US, but could really mean anywhere but Vietnam. “Where you from back in the world?” “Missouri.”)

Somewhere in the middle of a chorus of “Good enough” the platoon slammed into an ambush. Or, more precisely, an ambush slammed the platoon.

An ambush is instant chaos. First you dive for cover, then you begin to return fire. It was said, whoever got fire superiority in the first 20 seconds would win. But those 20 seconds seemed VERY long. Sort of like 8 seconds must feel to a Bull Rider.

Above the noise of the rifles, we could hear Chappy. His voice rising octave by octave as he screamed, “Shit, Oh Shit, Damn, Damn, Damn.” Hale said, “He's hit. We gotta get over there.” Guys began scrambling, crawling, diving to the spot where Chappy was rolled up against a downed tree. “Where are you hit?!”

“My peaches! The bastards shot me in the peaches!” Which led, GIs being mostly teen boys with teen minds, to everyone looking at Chappy's crotch, checking his “PEACHES.” Sigh of relief. No blood. Then they noticed him holding something to his mouth. The firefight went on around and above. Chappy screaming at the unseen enemy, “You sons a bitches, soon as I finish my peaches, I'll kill all of you! Bastards shot my peaches.”

Later, in the calm after Charlie disappeared like he'd never been there, the story came together. About the first AK round in had caught Chappy behind the left shoulder. There it first struck the pack flap, through that to the can of peaches, traveling along the can splitting its seam, and hitting the aluminum pack frame then going off into the trees. Chappy said that he was diving for cover when it felt like a sledge hammer hit him on the shoulder blade. It spun him over, and he reached back with his other hand to grab where he'd been hit. All his hand felt was hot, sticky fluid oozing out. He instantly knew he was bleeding to death. Then, by reflex, he pulled his hand around to look at it. The fluid was clear, not blood red. His hand was covered with it. He took a taste. Peach juice! He grabbed around behind his shoulder until he found the split can. When we got to our “wounded” buddy, he was sucking the remaining fruit from the split can, and yelling his hate at the people who wasted his peaches.

Chappy had no broken skin. He had a black and yellow bruise the size of a platter on his shoulder and back. He couldn't raise his left arm for a couple of weeks. He never lost his love for peaches, though.

Beagles, Pat Robertson, and Dinosaur Weenies.

I made the mistake of leaving the Discovery Channel running.

Before I knew it, the Beagle Posse had watched a documentary on the Theory of Evolution. They demanded a Sit Down.

“So,” said Tuppence, “As we understand this evolution thing, we're basically a couple of wolves spending our days with a monkey, and the monkey is in charge. Is that about right?”

“First of all,” I sighed, “it's more 'ape' than 'monkey', and it has to do with common ancestors, not with what either you or I are today.”

“Potatoes, Yams,” said Tommy.

“Ummmm, I think you mean.......”

“Would you like to have a sample of our Wolfish dentition?” asked Tommy.

“Would you like to find out how that dentition is going to do chewing on only the kibbles you can get out of the cupboard and Tupperware without any Ape-ish thumbs?”

Tommy muttered, “You're so proud of those two digits.”

“How many days do you want to go without them feeding you?”

Tuppy jumped in, “Let's talk about birds.”

“Huh?”

“The program said birds are the remaining dinosaurs.”

“Well, given millions of years and millions of changes, I guess that's true.”

Tommy began to strut around my chair, “Watch your step, Ape Boy, I can kick a dinosaur's ass.”

I began with great patience. “No, the birds in our yard aren't dinosaurs. They are the animals that dinosaurs evolved into. Evolution is defined as, 'Change in a group of organisms over time through the process of natural selection.' So, as dinosaurs became extinct, a few began to slowly change into the birds of today.”

“Yeah,” continued Tommy, “I can whup up on a Sparrowsaur, a Jayasaursus, a Goldfinchadyctl, a....”

“Stop. First of all, you can't even catch one of them.”

“Well,” sniffed Tuppy, “they cheat.”

“How's that?”

“They fly off.”

I said, “There's evolution for you. As the creatures lost their size and strength, they developed other means of self-preservation, and one of those was flight. See how that works? It's really cool science.”

“Nope.” Tommy puts in. “I watched another show that said wings are an example of irretraceable constructivty.”

“I think you mean, 'irreducible complexity,' and that's a silly argument put up by Creationists. Scientists have proved it wrong over and over. After you'd seen a good show on Evolution, why would you even watch a Creationist show?”

Tuppy looked at me with pity. “Because it's a lot easier to read just the first 20 pages of one book than hundreds of dense science texts. Sheesh, even Pat Robertson can see that.”

“Yeah,” I said, Robertson is about a Helix short of a Genome. He's the kind of anti-science fool who also denies Climate Change.”

Tommy stopped his strutting for a second, “He doesn't have to pee in Weenie-Deep snow. Let him do that a few times a winter. THAT'S something you can't deny, believe you me.” He went back to strutting.

“You know,” I said, “if I understand him, Robertson also denies Weenies.”

Tommy was still strutting. “Tommy the Dino Slayer, Tommy the Tyrannosaurus Wrecker, Tommy the....”

“Wait a minute Mr. Dino Slayer, what about those hawks? You run for the doggie door every time the shadow of one crosses the yard.”

Tommy looked at me briefly, “I've got other plans for them.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, an asteroid is gonna hit 'em.”

Deck Us All With Boston Charlie.

(This work is not mine. It is from the brilliant mind of Walt Kelly, and his wonderful comic strip, "Pogo."  If you remember it, you are older than dirt.  If it is new to you, enjoy. During this Peaceful time of year, even 'possums, porky pines, and 'gaters are Posse members.)

Deck us all with Boston Charlie,

Walla, Walla Wash., an' Kalamazoo!

Nora's freezin' on the trolley,

Swaller dollar cauliflower alley-garoo!

Don't we know archaic barrel
Lullaby Lilla Boy, Louisville Lou?
Trolley Molly don't love Harold,
Boola boola Pensacoola hullabaloo!

Bark us all bow-wows of folly,
Polly wolly cracker 'n' too-da-loo!
Donkey Bonny brays a carol,
Antelope Cantaloupe, 'lope with you!

Hunky Dory's pop is lolly,
Gaggin' on the wagon, Willy, folly go through!
Chollie's collie barks at Barrow,
Harum scarum five alarm bung-a-loo!

Dunk us all in bowls of barley,
Hinky dinky dink an' polly voo!
Chilly Filly's name is Chollie,
Chollie Filly's jolly chilly view halloo!

Bark us all bow-wows of folly,
Double-bubble, toyland trouble! Woof, woof, woof!
Tizzy seas on melon collie!
Dibble-dabble, scribble-scrabble! Goof, goof, goof!

The Mud Pit Revelation.

The beagle definition of “mud room” obviously was more like, “mud house.”

I stood just inside the front door and looked at the gumbo trail our living room and hallway had become. It was a drizzly winter day, not quite freezing, and the Posse had taken advantage of the recently installed dog door to make several trips to the yard, where they had taken advantage of the soggy ground to dig. They obviously have learned to use the door; not to wipe their feet.

(For the initial explanation of the dog door, see “The Cabra Portal”, Nov. 13.)

As I was noticing that the trail even led up onto the couch and love seat, which we DID cover with washable, dog resistant throws, in comes the entire Posse--trotting, grinning, and adding another coat of brown pigment to the broadloom. I stopped them before Tommy could jump up on me, noticing that their paws, all 8 of them, were caked, and that Tommy even had a coating of mud on one ear. (A state he never would explain. I asked, “Why is there mud on your ear?” and he replied, “I can't hear you, I have mud in my ear.”)

They saw my expression, with a “no treats for a week” curl to my lip, and immediately began to speak. “We were out in the back, looking through the fence for marauders, when the mud just rushed through the door and onto the floors. We're as surprised as you are.”

“No, the mud did not come in by itself. Who tracked in all this dirt?”

Tommy first, “We told you that if you put in that dog door, the Chupacabra would sneak in. Those look exactly like Goat Sucker tracks to me.” Then Tuppence, “My theory is rogue squirrels. We were out back checking on the raccoons, and while they distracted us, squirrels—a BUNCH of squirrels--snuck in and trashed the place. It's a well-known fact that raccoons and squirrels are in a satanic alliance against beagles.”

“Satanic alliance?”

“The Rodent Axis. It was on all the news channels.”

I sank onto the (muddy) love seat. “Look, that's four different stories in less than 30 seconds. You need to agree on the one you're going to try to sell me.”

Tuppence looked at me closely, “Which one did you find the most believable?”

“Huh?”

“It's like shopping for cars. We want to sell you the one you're most likely to buy.”

“The stories are all lemons,” I said.

Tommy threw in, “That never stopped you on the car lot.”

“Look,” I said, “You tracked in the mud. I just want you to tell me you'll be more careful.”

“That's beside the point,” said Tupp.

“You don't have a point.”

“Apparently, neither do you.”

“Yeah, well, my point is, you each get a bath.”

Tommy scratched at his muddy ear, tossing clods onto the front of the end table. “Also pointless.”

“How's that?”

Smugly, “We know where there's more mud than you know where there's dog shampoo.”

I slapped my knees and stood up. “Well, some of this is dry enough to vacuum up.”

“No, you can't” whined Tuppence “We made this a holy shrine.”

“Now that's a new one. Do tell.”

“Look at that paw print over there. See, it has the image of the Virgin in it. And over there, clearly the face of our Savior. See how the sand and the mud swirl together to reveal the blessed face?”

“Not seeing it. Not buying it.” I said.

“You didn't see the Blessed Mother in the tortilla either, did you?”

“Where did THAT come from?”

“And speaking of tortillas, we'll take two, with peanut butter—the peanut butter doesn't have to make an image.”

“NO!” I grabbed the Hoover and took a pass down about 5 feet of prints in the hall, leaving a clean path.

“Ayyyyeeeeeiiiiiiii!” And the Posse scrambled for the dog door, fighting to both get through at once.

“Are you still that scared of the vacuum cleaner?” I asked.

“No.” Tommy screamed. “The lightening.”

“There's no lightening going on.”

“It's coming,” yelled Tupp as they cowered in the back corner of the yard. “You just sucked up all the Stations of the Cross.”

The Posse Storms the Diet Industry.

The Posse made clear that it was displeased to have been left home during our Thanksgiving trip.

Tommy said, “Thanks, A LOT.” But I didn't hear any thanks in the phase. It sounded a lot like when you say “Thank you” to the cop as he walks away after giving you a ticket. As Mark Twain said, “He's got the lyrics, but he sure ain't got the music.”

I explained, we visited a ranch with 14 horses, 3 Great Danes, a Weimaraner, a Black Lab, a Pug, and an albino, blind and deaf Guinea Pig. We were afraid the Guinea Pig would hurt the Posse. PLUS, there were no beagle-proof fences between there and Wyoming. The last part the Posse saw no problem with. But we could just see ourselves chasing scent hounds on a trek across the freezing, wind-swept Nebraska prairie. And it was not a delightful vision. At least not from the human side.

Tuppence said that they had not wasted their time, even if we had wasted ours. They had come up with a great way to increase the family finances. Tommy said, “We'll be poopin' Filet Mignon, and you'll be fartin' through silk. There's so much money in this plan a drunk Kardashian couldn't spend it in a weekend in Monaco.”

“Okay, I'll bite. What's the plan?”

“We've invented a diet. Well, actually, a diet book you need to write, but it's packed with big bucks.”

“You dogs have invented a diet?”

“Yeah, have you SEEN the stupid stuff fat folks will fall for? All you have to do is claim they will lose weight without any work, and they'll start throwing money at you. Grapefruit diets, Cider Vinegar diets, Steak diets, Mediterranean diets. Artichoke and Honey diets, Raw diets, even Mold and Algae diets. The fools will buy into anything if you just put an anorexic starlet, or has-been actress with an eating disorder, in the commercials and on the book cover. Oh, yeah, and used the words, 'proven', and 'THEY don't want you to know'. You don't have to PROVIDE your proof, and you don't have to say who THEY are, or why they don't want you to know. Every Honey Boo Boo viewer knows all about who THEY are.”

“OK,” I asked, you are saying your diet is based on the gullibility of the American public?”

“Exactly.”

“And how does your diet work?”

“It doesn't have to work. It just has to sell. All diets are like that.”

“Hmmm. Well, how do you SAY it works.”

“We don't say how. We just say, 'Watch pounds melt like magic.”

Still suspicious, I asked, “Won't that be a lie.”

“Nope.” said Tommy. “Melted pounds aren't gone pounds.”

I said, “Let's go back a bit. What are you going to call this diet?”
Tuppence smiled like a banker at a foreclosure. “The Gullibility Diet.”

“Huh?”

“We're perfectly honest. The whole diet is based on the buyer's gullibility. We tell them, 'You just have to believe us.”

“And they'll lose weight?”

“Probably not. The point is, they THINK they'll lose weight. Right up 'til the next fad comes along.”

“And you'll call it, 'The Gullibility Diet'? Won't the title be a give away?”

Tommy smirked at me. “Hey, these are the people who think Reality TV is reality. They watch 'Duck Dynasty' and 'Honey Boo Boo.' They believe in 6,000 year old Dinosaurs and don't believe in Global Climate Change. These chubbies actually think that if they give billionaires enough money, the rich bastards will give some back to them. Besides, we will give them one true piece of dieting advice. That's more than most diet books do.”

“One truth. And what would that be?”

Tuppence piped up. They obviously had thought this through while we were gone. And I thought all they'd done was chew up paper and track in mud. “It's this,” she said, “You can eat anything. You just can't eat everything.”

I started to object, but realized, that actually made sense. Beagles making more sense than all the human Diet Gurus? Really? Well, even that isn't a stretch if you think about diet gurus.

“Won't the title, 'Gullibility Diet' be a red flag?”

“Nah,” said Tupp. “Five syllables in gullibility. They won't even sound it out. They'll just see 'Diet' and plop down the MasterCards.”

“But,” I said, “eventually even some dumb people do catch on. Won't they be mad and come after us?”

“There's the beauty,” said Tommy. “That's when we'll sell them the second book, for twice the price.”

“Second book?”

“Yeah,” grinned Tuppence. “ The title is-- 'Sucker no more. Buy This Book to Cure Gullibility.' -- It'll be a self help masterpiece. They get the lesson the minute they pay for it. No reading required.”

I Get Hot When You Speak French At Me.

Because they spend so much time around vain, self-absorbed, appearance-fixated people, film crews and stage crews tend to be intentionally scruffy. They lean to beards, t-shirts and gimme caps. Even successful behind the camera people dress down.

Jim E. comes to mind. A excellent cinematographer, he has been the Director of Photography on several movies you'd recognize, and countless TV shows and commercials. I had the joy of working with him on TV spots. When not on location, Jim lived in Dallas. Dallas, with the Studios at Las Colinas, and other facilities, has a thriving film community. A while back, one of the big service companies supplying camera, grip truck, lighting, and other rentals to production companies, was a firm named Victor Duncan. Victor Duncan supplied many of the gimme caps worn by Dallas film crews, because all they had on them was a large, bold-faced, “V-D.” Grips, Gaffers, DP s, and other Craft crews live IN YOUR FACE.

During pre-production meetings for a commercial shoot in Dallas, Jim and I went to lunch at a small “French-influenced” restaurant in the Quadrangle. No group is quite so full of itself as the staff of a “French” restaurant in North Dallas. Jim was dressed in his usual Crew Casual, complete with VD cap. Snooty waiters in Dallas seemed to often misjudge Jim. He was well off, and and worked/traveled all over the world. Don't judge a customer by his cover.

As we looked at the menu, and got the stinkeye for the hat, Jim commented to me that he wasn't very hungry, and might just have soup.

When the waiter, from the height of his minimum-wage haughty, finally deigned to come to our table, Jim looked up and asked, “What's the Soup Du Jour?”

With all of his North Dallas dismay at having to actually serve the “Unwashed Masses,” the waiter sneered, “It's the “soup of the day.....(pause)...sir.”

Jim, with his gruff, growling voice, missed not a beat. “I KNOW that,” he rumbled. “But the last time I was in here and had the Soup Du Jour, the chef was using frozen Du Jours. That is not acceptable. You maybe can't, but I can taste the difference between frozen and fresh Du Jours. So, Sonny, what I want to know is, are the Du Jours in the soup fresh or frozen?”

Waiter stammered, “But, but, the words mean.......”

Jim jumped on it. “Don't you 'but, but” at me. Do I look like you could fool me with frozen Du Jours? Well, do I look like that kind of fool to you?”

“Sir, I'm sorry, but...”

“Yes, passing off frozen Du Jours is sorry. Here's what you do. You march your tight little waiter pants, and your silly gold neck chain, back to the kitchen. You get the chef. You tell him Jim is here, and he's on to the game. You bring that chef out so he can look me in the eye and assure me that his Soup Du Jour today is packed full of the freshest Du Jours he could find at the market.”

If you have a choice, go to lunch with the Crew, not with the actors. It's more fun.

A Balanced Meal. Teetering on the Edge.

The Beagle Posse marched in in Delegation File.

It's hard to explain, but they have different ways of coming at me single file depending on the purpose. There's the Dinner Time File, the Treat Time File, the We Need Attention File, the You Are Failing Woefully File, and most disturbing of all, the Delegation File. Admittedly, these all just look like one dog following another into the room, but believe me, to the practiced eye, there are differences in demeanor and stride.

The Delegation File means they have unmet demands—demands that go beyond the usual food, scratches, treats realm. Demands that may have been slowly percolating up through Beagle Consciousness (a state about which Climate Deniers are skeptical), or demands that may have just hit like of bolt of inspiration arriving on some cosmic telegraph. Few moments are as anxiety prone for a beagle owner as those before finding out just what new Posse demands might entail.

Tuppence spoke. “We finished our Thanksgiving list.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, “the things you are Thankful for?”

“The things we want.”

“Isn't that a Christmas list?”, I asked.

“We'll get to that after we see how you do on the Thanksgiving list,” said Tuppence. “This is a list of things we want to see on the table—and the floor.”

When it comes to food, beagles are single minded. And, with the Posse, Tuppence is designated to make food demands. Tommy is designated to commit food theft.

“OK,” she continued, “write this down. First, turkey; then turkey drumsticks; then turkey gizzards; then turkey gravy; then turkey juice; and finally, pie. Any kind of pie. And, oh, yeah, did I say turkey?”

I began to see a pattern. “Why did you add pie?”

“We want a balanced meal. You can drop the turkey on the floor. Balance the pie on the table, Tommy will get it.”

“Sorry,” I explained, “we're not having Thanksgiving dinner at our house this year. We're eating with relatives at their house.”

Tommy finally spoke up, “Did we say this list was for you? We noticed that it's only a week until Thanksgiving, and there's no turkey in our freezer. You are failing again.” Don't ask me how, but the Beagle Posse can give a complete inventory of all sources of protein in our house at any time—freezer, fridge, and canned in the pantry.

“If you want a balanced meal, shouldn't you have some vegetables?”, I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” said Tuppence. “We'll have Brussels sprouts with bacon.”

“Just make it without the stinking Brussels sprouts.”

Of Roofing and Pig Trucking.

(Names changed to protect the guilty.)

Hey Ray is of the conviction that there is no construction project a half dozen beer-fueled hillbillies can't handle in a day.

When the century-old farm house he lived in got to the point where a new roof was essential, his trip to pick up materials included a stop at the liquor store for a couple cases of Pabst and three bags of ice. He already had the galvanized wash tubs ready and waiting for the beer.

Hey Ray, was called this because his dad was “Big Ray” and would step on the porch and call his son, “Hey, Ray, get up here.”

He was a real mix up. A country-living hillbilly who taught High School math. He stood about six one, and weighed about 140 at the most. He was a master at what he called “Tom Sawyering,” getting his friends to do work for him. The friends involved in this roofing project should have known better. Some of them had previously been involved in what became knows as “The Great Christian County Pig Rodeo.” That was an afternoon when Hey Ray and three friends had, after sufficient Pabst, decided to load a 250 lb. Duroc Sow into the back of his pickup. The pig had no plans for a pickup ride that day. Let it be known, even 600 (combined) pounds of hillbilly are not a match for 250 pounds of Sow when there is a difference of opinion about transportation.

Back to the roof.

The project, and the top popping began about 9 a.m. on a sunny Saturday. It was a big job. Even the decking was bad, so the roof had to be stripped clear down to the rafters; then re-decked with plywood, covered with tar paper, and finally shingled.

After stripping the old off, the work began on the front-facing slope of the roof. That was finished by noon. As the crew took a Bologna and Beer break for lunch, Hey Ray stood on the front slope surveying the progress. He walked backwards up the slope to the peak of the roof. He wasn't thinking that so far ALL of the replacement work had been done to the visible front. Opinions differed as the story was later told as to whether it was Ray Hey's general inattention or some combination of sun and beer that led him to take that one more step back across the roof ridge. A step that led off into empty space between rafters.

You'll remember we described Hey Ray as tall and very skinny. He was also very lucky.

He happened to fall precisely between two rafters, and stayed lucky as his fall took him between, and not on, two ceiling joists. He hit above the kitchen ceiling, and the insulation, plaster, and lathing of the old house served to break his fall.

We need to introduce another figure in the tale here. Hey Ray was married at the time to a woman none of his friends much liked. As Ray said, “While we were gone on our honeymoon, she had ordered 40 pounds of ass and a ton of bad attitude from Montgomery Wards, and they delivered it all the day we got home.”

Wife was occupied with her usual mid-day activity. Sitting at the Formica and chrome kitchen table, eating chocolate marshmallow cookies, and reading a movie magazine.

In a huge cloud of plaster dust, insulation, broken lath, and a century's worth of attic dirt, Hey Ray landed flat on his back in the middle of that table.

Miraculously unhurt, (a piece of luck he attributed to The Blue Ribbon Angel) he stood up, brushing himself off and looking around a kitchen that looked freshly bombed. His gaze finally landed on his shocked, open-mouthed wife. “Dayum, woman,” he said, “Me and my friends are workin' our butts off to put a roof over you. Least you could do is take a dust rag to this place.”

There was a flag on the play.

And the Great God of the Turf sayeth, “Betwixt the Touch of the Passing, and the Downs of the Rushing, thou shalt split not asunder, for they are of the equal holy Six in my sight. Also wilt thou, with Gleesome Joy, welcome the Goal of the Field which arriveth in the seconds of finality.”

Even just driving through Texas, including the short strip across the Panhandle, it is obvious to the casual observer that High School Football is a religion, a celebration of Friday Sacraments.

Celebrated as a hallowed ritual of that faith is the biannual meeting of Texas high school football coaches in the city of Galveston. A priestly pilgrimage to the sand, sun, and sea. The stated reasons are to discuss rules, rule changes, new methods of training and safety, and for coaches to exchange tips and knowledge. (Though the thought that knowledge and adolescent concussions can actually be related is a bit problematic.)

Times back, in Houston, my wife (known by the Beagle Posse as, “The Morning Food Lady”) worked at a law firm with a woman whose husband was one of those coaches. Said coach referred to by said wife as, “Coachypoo.”

As was the custom in such Texas households, this wife was in charge of packing Coachypoo's bags for a Galveston meeting. Which she dutifully did.

Before his departure, Mr. Coach informs wife, “Don't try to reach me tonight. The first night we always spend fishing out on one of the Red Snapper boats.” (Our tale takes place in the days before Cell Phones.)

Upon his return home 3 days later, Wifey asked Coachypoo, “How was your meeting?”

“Fine,” he replied. “Except you forgot to pack any clean underwear for me.”

“Oh, yes, I packed it,” smiled wife. (A smile NO husband wants to see.) “It was in your tackle box.”

The Cabra Portal

If there's a door in the wall, and no one will go through it, is it still a door?

The patio beagle door got delivered and installed. Now comes the process of “training.”

When put in place, the panel was something that Tommy eyed suspiciously, then backed away from and growled at. He looked as confused as a Creationist in a planetarium. Tuppence, ever so much more brave, sniffed and walked away.

The instructions said to place yourself on the opposite side from the dog, hold the flap open, and using a treat entice the dog through. Here's the problem for a guy with a bum leg like mine. If I'm close enough to hold the flap up, I'm close enough for a dog to stick just a head and neck through. Snatch the treat, and run away from the scary hole in the wall. So, all that exercise really got me was a nipped finger or two.

I tried to reason with the Posse.

“Look, I got this so you can come and go to the back yard whenever you want, and the cold won't get in the house.”

Tommy said, “What's wrong with the automatic door opener we've been using?”

“You don't have an automatic door opener,” I said.

They both gave me a slow take that would have made Jack Benny, or Tommy Smothers, or any particular Python, proud. They were disgusted at how slow I am. You'll never feel slow until a beagle makes you feel slow.

We tried a few other maneuvers, and ways of both holding and tossing treats, and they would pass through the opening to get a treat, then run right back through it. They acted like I was opening a portal to a parallel, but very dangerous, universe. They'd zip through and right back as long as I held the flap open. No way a beagle nose, their most valuable possession, was going to touch and push a flap.

I tried reason yet again. “Look, you used the screen flap this summer, use the plastic flap now.”

“It's dangerous,” said Tommy. “If we can go out, the Chupacabra can come in.”

“What?”

“Do you WANT the Chupacabra to come in and suck all of our blood? Is this part of a plan to get rid of us.”

“First of all, a Chupacabra isn't real, it is an imaginary beast. Second, it lives in Texas and Mexico, not Indiana.”

The Posse spun and walked away from me. “If it's imaginary, how do you know where it lives?”

We've got some work to do.

I think you're unclear on the concept.

Early 1970s: the “Sexual Revolution” was all the rage. And a young generation of college students thought that they, and they alone, had invented sex.

In the theater department of a Midwestern university, a student-written play was being produced, and it included a bit of business concerning a character's earrings, which were made from IUDs.

The head of the costume department, a young, “hip” female professor said she'd get those from her gynecologist.

In the rush of mounting a production, things got forgotten, and left until the last minute. So, the afternoon before Dress Rehearsal, we find the costume prof frantically phoning her doctor's office.

The nurse answering the phone said, “I'm sorry, the doctor can't come to the phone, you'll need to leave a message.”

Costumer says, “I don't need the doctor, I'm sure you can help me. I need some IUDs.”

The nurse replies, “I'm sorry, but the doctor is busy.”

Voice rising, the costume maven pushes, “I don't need to talk to the doctor. I need someone to get me some IUDs.”

There's a pause..........”SOME IUDs? How many do you think you need?”

“Well, two, of course, one for each ear.”

“I'll get the doctor. He'll explain some things to you.”

You don't know Grits from Granola.

Early mid-morning, and the laser glares from the Beagle Posse were burning the back of my neck. I turned around from the desk and sighed, “OK, what now?”

“Breakfast,” Tuppence said.

“You had it,” I replied.

“Had what?” spoke Tommy.

“Your usual, Kibbles moistened with warm water, and lovingly served in your bowl on your food rug.”

The lasers went from red to white hot. “Yes! Again.”

“Look,” I said, “It's your food. You love it. You pester me for it, and you gobbled it up this morning as you do every day.”

Tommy began to inspect his butt while Tuppy continued the conversation. “And what did YOU have for breakfast?”

“My usual, eggs on buttered grits.”

“And what did Deborah have?”

“Her usual, yogurt with blueberries and granola.”

“And we get kibbles.”

“I think of it as your doggie granola.”

Tommy looked up from his posterior perusing, “And we've decided you don't know Grits from Granola.”

“I think the real phrase is, …......You know what, never mind that. Listen, guys, you've stolen a bowl of Deborah's yogurt and granola before, and the yogurt gave you the runs. Lactose intolerance. Remember?”

“So?”

“So? I had to clean it up, and steam clean the carpet. THAT so.”

The Posse had held still as long as possible. At this point, they went into committee with a snarling, running, ear tugging tumble down the hall and back. The caucus completed, they returned to their task. “We want yours.”

“Our food isn't good for you.”

“We don't care.”

I gave it a bit of thought, and said, “How about this? Tomorrow, when I make my grits, I'll make some for your breakfast.” They began to wag and look triumphant. “The thing is, I'll do it at MY breakfast time, which is a couple of hours later than your usual breakfast.”

Posse triumphalism turned into Posse growls. “Nooooooo. Too late.”

“Well,” I said, 6 am breakfast is kibbles. 8 am breakfast is grits.” I know the power of the beagle tummy clock. It rules.

Blank stares turned back into lasers. Then, they looked at each other, got their chipmunk hunter expressions on, and headed down the hall to the patio door ready for a rodent chase.

As they walked away, I heard Tommy say, “Well, Shineola. It was worth a try though.”

Doing less of nothing.

I have been informed that there is a Beagle Posse labor action in progress.

Tommy came in, identified himself as “the duly elected shop steward,” and informed me that an action has been voted by the union membership.

I said, “Are you on strike? I hadn't noticed.”

He said, “No, for now it is a slow down.”

“A slow down? Does that mean you are going to chase fewer squirrels and chipmunks?”

“No, that's what we do on our break.”

“Does it mean you're going to eat less?”

“No. We do that for us, not for you.”

“Then, please, what does a beagle slow down mean?”

“We will be doing less of nothing until our demands are met.”

“Less of nothing?”

“Yes. We can do a lot less of it if we have to.”

I sighed. “And what are your demands?”

Tommy barked, “The BACK DOOR.”

I began to catch on. During the Spring and Summer, we had a curtain screen up on the patio door which allowed free and random beagle access to the yard. With the coming of cooler weather, we have taken that in, and are keeping the door closed to keep the house warm. The Posse is back to having to bark or “ring bells” to get in or out. (We have a strip of harness bells hanging low by the door. The dogs know to use nose or paw to ring them for us to come let them out.)

“Winter is coming,” I said, “and it's getting too cold to leave a door open.”

“Yeah, why?” demanded Tommy.

“It's that time of year.”

“What's a year?”

“That's the length of time it takes the earth to obit the sun once.”

“What's orbit?”

'That is the circular/elliptical path one celestial body travels around another. In this case, the earth orbits the sun.”
“What's the sun?”

Sheesh. “It is the nearest star. The center of our solar system. It is a natural helium-hydrogen fusion reactor that provides all of our light and warmth.”

“What's helium?”

I was losing patience. “You don't know ANY science, do you?”

Tommy said, “We watch every science show on Fox.”

“Right. You don't know any science.”

“We have noticed,” said Tommy, “it is getting colder out in our playground-slash-bathroom. Who is responsible for that?”

“I just told you. It's the natural progression of the year.”

Tuppence finally chimed in, “Ah, so it's Obama's fault. We'll need to hold hearings.”

I nearly lost it. “It's no one's fault. IT HAPPENS EVERY YEAR.”

“Umhmmm,” said Tuppy. “Every year since the Mooslum Soshlust has been in.”

“EVERY YEAR SINCE TIME BEGAN,” I yelled.

“Who knew how long that Kenyan's one-world tentacles were?” said Tommy. “We'll be in the hearing room. You may expect a subpoena.”

“Fox?” I sighed.

Tommy went back to the labor action. “We will continue to do less of nothing, in fact less and less of it, until you make the temperature right out there, and open our door.”

“Tommy, I don't have that power. It will warm up in the Spring.”

“Then we'll be doing less nothing until then. You just watch.”

“And, when it warms up, and the door opens?” I asked. (Not positive I wanted an answer.)

“Then, “ said Tuppence, “We'll go back to doing more of nothing again.”

“When you're striking, you do less of nothing, and when you're working you do more of nothing, is that how it works?” I asked. “Aren't Less of Nothing and More of Nothing pretty much exactly alike?”

The Posse strode off to a nap. Tuppy saying, “Management never gets it.”

The Last Smith on the Huey.

(This story is true, just not the names.)

Frank and Jesse were young CPAs starting their careers. They were drafted during the Vietnam war, and they were not happy soldiers. Sure, they could have been officers. All they had to do was give the Army two MORE years of their lives. They hated the two years they were in for, it doesn't take an accountant to do the math on giving two more. They both thought, “Just get it done with.”

They came together working in the USARV Replacement Office in Long Binh, Vietnam, and they very soon began inventive subversion.

The way Replacement (requisitioning and assigning new troops in the war) worked in those days was that major units would send their projected Force Requirements to USARV (US Army in Vietnam), and USARV would put it all together to send on to the DoD in Washington. Stateside orders would be cut, and troops loaded onto airplanes bound for SE Asia. These requisitions for people, not too different from requisitions for toilet paper, would be by Rank and MOS. An MOS is a “Military Occupational Specialty”--what you are trained to do in the Army. They run a gamut. They are coded by numbers and letters. For instance, an 11B20, spoken as “Eleven Bravo”, is a low ranking infantryman. The “2” goes up to 3 and 4 as rank increases. The “0” is a place holder for special designations. For instance, an 11B2P is a paratrooper, and an 11B2L speaks a second language. Other examples would be “71B20” Clerk Typist; or “94B20” Combat photographer.

As those planes full of new troops left the US, a lengthy “Green Bar” computer print out, just like corporations used in those days, would be sent via teletype to USARV. It would list, by name. Rank. and MOS, all inbound personnel, and would arrive about 20 hours before the plane. At the time of this tale, about 10,000 new troops a day were arriving in Vietnam. The list would be sorted by MOS. Who is not really important to an Army. “What” is.

Clerks like Frank and Jesse would count and circle blocks of names to be assigned to Major Subordinate Commands, like Divisions and Brigades. These commands had similar operations that assigned on down to the battalion and company levels. By the time a replacement landed in Vietnam, his in-country destination was already decided.

One day during Monsoon season, Jesse looked at Frank and asked, “What's the smallest command we assign to?”

Frank said, “Some independent Brigade somewhere.”

“No,” said Jesse, “SMALL.”

Frank said, “We don't assign small.” But they both got looking.

They discovered that there was a courier helicopter company in Saigon that served MACV, USARV, and the Embassy, and was subordinate to no command other than USARV. It was a company, about 200 men, that got direct assignments from Frank and Jesse's office. The game was afoot.

Jesse said, “We've got 10,000 men a day to choose from, and up to 3 days to fill a slot. What if the 334^th Helicopter Company only gets men named Smith?”

“Smith?” said Frank.

“Smith,” replied Jesse.

So they began. Smith, after Smith, after Smith.

Theoretically, a tour in Vietnam was 1 year. But men often left earlier due to injury, illness, hardships at home, educational drops, in-country transfers, and more. So, in less than 6 months, more than 75% to 80% of a unit might turn over. And our subversive clerks had been at this for more than 6 months. The Army works on alphabetized lists of names. Duty Rosters; Morning Reports; Leave Schedules and Authorizations; Sick Call lists; DROS (Date of Return from Overseas) lists; and more. These must have been getting interesting at the 334^th.

The door of the large, cube-filled office where the replacement clerks worked slammed open. A Full Bird Colonel stepped in and shouted, “Ten-HUT.” This was scary. The lowest ranking man in a group steps through a door first and calls the room to attention. And this was a Colonel.

Behind him a Two Star General stomped in, looking every bit the part. He growls out, “Which of you Sumbitches assigns to the 334^th Helicopter Company?”

Frank and Jesse timidly raised their hands. The general combat-strides over to them and says, “Smith. Smith. Smith? Fuckin' SMITH! Do you think that's funny?”

The first rule of military survival is, Deny. Frank and Jesse did, saying something like, “Huh?”

The general is at full bellow. “Every damn man going to the 334^th is a Smith, are you Peckerwoods gonna tell me that's an accident?”

“Yessir,” bleats Frank.

“Yes, Sir, WHAT?”

“Yes, Sir. It must be a coincidence. We have no idea how........”

The next Star Filled Explosion cut them off. The general continued to yell. They continued to deny. Finally, out of steam, the general said, “Accident or not, if one more, just one more, swingin' richard named Smith shows up at the 334^th, the two of you will be sent so far North, you'll be looking South to the DMZ.” And he spun and stormed out, followed by his brass-festooned minions.

The room was silent and filled with quaking soldiers, including Frank. But not Jesse. He was looking down pensively at a green bar printout.

After about 20 seconds of silence, he looked up at Frank and asked, “Brown?”

Their one-year tours ended before THAT explosion.

The Brussel Sprout on the Linoleum.

I walked into the room to find the Posse facing each other making Posse noises.

“What's up?”

Tuppence said, “If cousin Watson visits from Texas, Tommy needs to know Texanish.”

“Texanish?”

“Yeah, how to talk it.”

“Well, Tuppy, first of all Watson isn't coming. Second, Watson is a smart dog. He lives with a Rice U. grad, and speaks fine English.”

“So you say. But even the Governor of Texas speaks kind of dumb.”

“That doesn't mean Watson does, and it's pretty clear, brains are not a requirement for Texas governor.”

“But Watson might visit.”

“He won't. I wish he and Tess would, but he isn't coming.”

Tuppy gives it the head cock and says, “It's like the Brussel Sprout on the Linoleum.”

“Do tell.”

“When you're cooking and you drop something, we ALWAYS run in. It could be a piece of steak or a fine piece of cheese.”

“But, Tupp, it's usually a piece of vegetable.”

“Zactly. But it's always worth the run. Even if it's a brussel sprout, it's exciting. For a second, you got POSSIBILITIES!”

She turned back to her task. “Tommy, first I'm gonna learn you your a Fixin' Tos......

“I'm a fixin' to,

He's a fixin' to,
She's a fixin' to,

We're a fixin' to,
They're a fixin' to.”

I walked out in disgust. It was a '57 Disgust sedan. V8. A real classic.

Tupp went on in the background. “Now, I'm gonna learn you your AIN'T a Fixin' Tos......

“I ain't a fixin' to,

He ain't a fixin' to,
She ain't a fixin' to,

We ain't a fixin' to,
They ain't a fixin' to.”

I went for coffee.

Later, I ran into Tommy in the Den. “Tommy, I put all of your toys in the basket and now they're spread all over. Deborah will be home soon, pick them up and put them back in the basket, please.”

Tommy turned away, sat down, and began vigorously nibbling on that spot in his left arm pit.

As I picked up a toy, I heard him mutter, “I ain't a fixin' to.”

Every Tommy Must Get Stoned

Regular visitors here know, the Posse gets Elevenses every day at 11 am. Beagles being a British breed, we offer them some bits of English civilization now and then. Not that they feel inclined to reciprocate with anything approaching civilization.

As with all things Posse, benefits soon become expectations. If the benefits involve food, they are permanently stamped onto the Tummy Clock. And then, as with all things Posse, the Tummy Clock inches backwards a bit each day.

So, it was posse common for the two to show up in front of me at 10:40 with a look of entitled expectation. In fact, Tommy let drip a small strand of drool, just to make sure I knew the reason for the stares.

I waved them away, and said, “Not time yet, guys.”

They walked off.

The next thing I knew, Tommy was lying on the carpet at my feet, and crunching something. Anytime you hear a beagle crunch, you need to check what is crackling. Among other losses has been an MP3 player. (Eating the music machine doesn't seem to have improved the beagle taste in music, but that's another tale.)

I discovered that Tommy was crunching on a rock from the back yard. “Tommy, what the heck.........?”

“I was just SOOOOOO hungry. It's been like forever since you fed us.”

“Tommy, did you get a big bowl of breakfast at 6 am?”

“That was hours and hours ago. You haven't fed us in SOOOOO LOOOONNNNGGG.”

“And, Tommy, didn't you steal a piece of toast off my breakfast plate at 8 am?”

“That doesn't count, it wasn't MY food.”

“Then, didn't you get a handful of chicken jerky bits during our training session at 9:30?”

“I worked every bit of that off in the training.”

“Really? We were working on “sit” and “lie down”.”

“Yeah, exhausting.”

“Tommy, it seems to me you've been noshing all morning.”

“How'd YOU like to have to go that long between eating?”

“So, you went out and got a rock to gnaw on?”

“Just to tide me over.”

“Yeah, and break your teeth.”

“No more often than you feed us, I don't need teeth.”

“WHAT!??”

“Ohhhhhh, I'm weak, and SOOOOO HUNGRY.”

“Dummy, you managed to waste the 20 minutes until time for Elevenses. Here you go.”

(Tommy runs off with his dog biscuit. Little does he know that the MAIN reason for daily Elevenses is to help keep his teeth clean.)

“Tuppence, Tuppence, I did it, I got him to give us 'levenses early.”

“Yeah, Tommy,” I said, “about one minute early.”

“We win, we win, we win.”

The Battle of Pine Cone Woods.

The generals “generally” hated liberal Ted Kennedy, but Sen. Ted Kennedy was coming to Ft. Bragg. You don't get to be a general if you can't play nice with people you don't like. Especially if those people vote on your purse strings.

It was the Fall of 1968, and Ted was coming to Ft. Bragg to visit the John F. Kennedy Center for Special Warfare. The JFKCSW was the command headquarters of the Green Berets, Army Psychological Operations, and a few other hush-hush commands. The Vietnam War was in full swing, and the Brass at Bragg were atwitter about the Senatorial visit.

Ft. Bragg is one of the largest military installations in the US. In addition to the Green Berets and the Rangers, it is home to the 82d Airborne Division. Were it not for the howitzers, tanks, barracks, and such, it would be a pretty community, nestled there among the deep pine woods of North Carolina. With nearly 50,000 personnel in residence, in '68 it was as large as many cities in the US. With just as many streets and roads. Those pine trees, and those streets, are what we'll talk about today.

At the time, I was assigned to the 13^th Psyops Bn., part of the JFKCSW. The orders came down from Fort headquarters, the base must look extremely neat and clean for the senator. And that meant picking up all of the pine cones lying randomly under all of the trees along the roads of the post. It was Fall. There were thousands upon thousands, perhaps even millions, of them.

Never mind that Ted was on a tight schedule, and a general tour of the base was not planned. Never mind that his limo would probably whiz down one straight road from the main gate the 5 miles to the one building he was scheduled to visit. And probably back out the same route a short time later. Nope, “It's not your job to think of that, Soldier.” It was the job of the soldiers, in battalions, brigades, and divisions, to pick up and toss into trucks every visible pine cone at Fort Bragg. It took about a week for one thing, no one told the trees, and they kept dropping fresh cones. Finally, all portions of the 251 square mile fort visible from a road were denuded of pine cones.

The truckloads of potential Christmas wreaths were hauled to a distant place, and the brass felt ready for the Senator's arrival.

Then, the night before the visit, a Colonel read something. He ran to the Commanding General. “Sir, sir, Ted Kennedy is an ENVIRONMENTALIST. He's into nature and all that shit. He likes things natural.”

Panic. Phone calls. Orders barked.

Beginning at 4 o'clock in the morning (0400 hours to the brass), every soldier on the post was roused. Trucks were fired up and piled with pine cones from the secret dump, and soldiers began roaring around the post frantically throwing out pine cones.

Hundreds of trucks. Thousands of soldiers. Millions of pine cones. All with a single mission. Untidy Fort Bragg. Make it look naturally pine coney before the senator got there.

Later that morning, Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts was able to motor down a pine cone festooned road to one sibling-named building and back. The soldiers of Fort Bragg, North Carolina had protected your freedoms while you were safe abed. And the pine cones slept in the grass. As God and the Generals intended.

The politics of Jerky.

The Posse settled down for a morning munch on planks of new Chicken Jerky treats.

Tommy, “Mmmmph, nom, nom, mmmmph, slurp. Mmmmm, my favorite of all time.”

Tuppence, “Lick, lick, nibble, chew, chew, mmmmm, MY favorite of all time.”

Tommy looks up and says, “Yes, but they're more special to me. I like 'me better than you do.”

“Sorry, Tommy, not possible. I like these best. This stuff is my favorite. They tastes best to me.”

“Nope, Tuppy. They are MY favorite and I am their favorite.”

“Don't talk to me like that, Tommy. Show some respect.”

“Mmmmph, nom, these are MY treats. My favorite.”

“Hmmmph. What kind of treat would like a disrespectful hound?”

“You're more jerky than the Jerky.”

“Well, the hell with you AND your treats. I hate this Jerky.”

“No, the hell with YOU and YOUR treats. I hate it more.”

“Spit, spit, P'TUI, I don't even WANT any of your treats.”

“Gag, gag, hack, and I don't want yours.”

Two beagles stomp off.

“Jerk.”

“Jerk.”

How to get a painless flu shot.

Spending even a year or so in an army will grant you an advanced degree in finagling. With the right attitude, and the right props, there is almost nothing you can't get around, avoid, or “midnight requisition.”

Now, there are real pros, guys who make it into an art form, and most of us could never hope to achieve their glory. For instance, Mike Pitculuk. Among his feats was somehow acquiring a 24 lb. case of frozen lobster tails intended for the generals' mess. Cutting a company cook in on the spoils yielded a giant pot, a burner, and a big can of butter.

On the day he caught the Freedom Bird home, Mike's last act as a soldier was to have a Huey fly in to the front of our platoon hooch, carrying a sling load with an entire pallet, 4'x4'x4', of cases of Budweiser. The pilot set the load down, unhooked the cargo straps and flew off. On the top of the pallet was a note: “From Mike.” Now THAT was a pro.

Most of us made do with minor scams. We soon learned that if something hadn't moved, it was just because we hadn't found the right prop or lubricant.

In order to go places unmolested, and to get in and out of almost anywhere, restricted area or not, the best prop was a clip board and pencil. If you saw an officer approaching, you simply held up the board, pointed to it with the pencil, and sadly shook your head. You were obviously on a mission. A vital mission. Getting past any gate keeper was a matter of looking closely at their name tag, muttering “uh, huh,” and writing or making a big check mark. Having ones name taken down strikes fear in any soldier.

In most cases, “lubricant” meant some liquid containing alcohol, preferably in a ratio expressed as Proof.

A year before this tale, I'd been in Basic at Ft. Leonard Wood, MO. That summer, they tested the Swine Flu vaccine on we, the Olive Drab guinea pigs. That shot gave me a higher fever, and made me sicker, than ever before in my 19 years of life. So, when the orders went up on the company bulletin board at Long Binh saying that all personnel would report to the dispensary on or before a certain date “for the purpose of receiving an annual flu inoculation,” I began to plan.

A few days into the time window, I went by the PX and bought a fifth of Johnny Walker Red. Then, about midnight, when I knew only one medic would be on duty, I went to the dispensary. As the sleepy Spec. 4 medic approached the counter, I put the bottle on it and said, “Doc, (all medics were called “doc.”) I think I was in a couple of days ago and got my flu shot, but they forgot to write it down.”

He asked for my ID, and sweeping the bottle from the counter, turned and walked back to the file room. Coming back with my medical records, he flipped to my yellow shot card, pulled out his pen, made a note and said, “Yep, they forgot to write it down. Got it.” And returned my file to the shelves.

The right lubricant.

The Pizza Ghost.

Life with a Beagle Posse means an occasional foreboding of disaster. A twinge came as I was working in the computer room. I started to the kitchen where the vibes were originating.

The Posse met me in the hallway, taking a side by side sit, and blocking the way. They only sit when they are trying to work me for something.

“Where ya goin'?” asked Tuppence.

“There's no mess in the kitchen,” said Tommy. “You don't need to check. We just took a look for you.”

I said, “Move, I'll see for myself.”

“And,” Tuppy rushed to add, “if there is any problem, the cat did it.”

“ We don't have a cat.”

Tommy said, “You need to go get one. We'll wait.”

“Even if I get a cat, the time line won't work for you.”

“You'd believe a cat?” asked Tuppence. “Cats lie.”

“And beagles don't?”

“We're talking about cats.”

“No,” I said, “we're talking about the kitchen.”

“We weren't,” said Tommy.

I stepped past and went to the kitchen. The tingle had been right. We'd had half a home made pizza on the counter. Far enough back, I thought, to be out of reach. I underestimated the power of pizza spring in beagle legs.

There was little left, but signs everywhere of the struggle that had ensued. Scraps of green peppers here and there, and spots of tomato sauce up on the doors of the cabinets where pizza had been shaken like a dog toy. The pizza had been sitting on a flexible plastic cutting board. This was now on the floor with a lacy edge. The lace work bearing a perfect match to the arrangement and size of beagle teeth. Worst of all was a puddle of beagle puke where the pepperoni had been too rich for a canine tummy.

I set to clean up, and the Posse strolled down the hall to the back of the house and the patio, as if that's where they'd been headed all along.

As they quietly made their escape I heard them discussing. “We should have told him Bigfoot did it.”

Tuppy answers, “He doesn't believe in Bigfoot.”

Tommy returns, “How about next time we blame the Duck Dynasty guy?”

“Naw,” says Tuppence, “that fraud isn't allowed in the house.”

“I know,” exclaimed Tommy, “We'll say the Pizza Ghost did it.”

“Now, that sounds good, “ answered Tuppy.

“Yeah, Pizza Ghost.”

“Yup, Pizza Ghost.”

A confident Posse went out the dog door.

Testing Super Powers

There was a magic time in Branson, MO in the 70s. The town was on the dawn of becoming an entertainment mecca. In this infancy there were jobs for many young musicians and entertainers; not yet replaced by the aging refugees from Nashville.

They spent summer days and evenings playing for the tourists, and nights playing with each other.

Big R was one of these. Perhaps the best natural musician I've ever known, and one of the great personalities produced by the Ozarks, a land known for eccentrics. His advance planning skills extended only about an 8 bar jazz ride into the future. R would go on to back some of the biggest names in music, but this summer, he was playing rag time piano for a Melodrama Theater, rendering tunes in a fashion he called, “Sportin' House Piano.”

At this time, US 65 was two lane blacktop leading down from Springfield, through Branson and Hollister, and on to Harrison, Arkansas. About 3 miles south of Hollister, sitting near the highway, was a 10 story structure for the Forestry Service use of watching the National Forest for fires. Natives called it, “the Far Tar.” Such is Ozark spoken. The facility didn't appear to be manned very often.

Adolescent boys, and just-post adolescent men. often have a fixation on certain bodily functions. Such was the case with our hero. Thus, every time R and friends drove past the “Tar,” he would make some observation about how cool it would be to take a leak from the platform surrounding the little house 100 feet up. These observations were fueled by Beer Bladder.

One night, a friend responded with the Hillbilly equivalent of the Double Dog Dare. “R, You ain't got a hair on yore ass if you don't go do it raht now.”

Manhood having been questioned, the car screeched to a halt beneath the structure. It was dark, with no car or truck parked beneath, so could be presumed to be unmanned. Grabbing a can of PBR to be sure of a full “fuel tank” on arrival, R began to noisily clamber up the many flights of metal stairs to the top.

R was of a generation raised on comic book superheros. So, was engaged at times in the speculation of the wonders of personal super powers. In fact, one of his pet phrases, when he missed a note in a performance, or slid his car into a ditch, or struck out in his attempts on a girl, was, “My powers were somewhat under a cloud just then.” That cloud was often a beer mist.

As R clambered ever upward, his pit crew on the ground shouted encouragements, and began to gauge the weather so as to be up wind of any yellow rain that might soon descend.

R reached the top and climbed through the man hole onto the platform. He went straight to the railing, leaned his thighs against it, un-zipped his Wranglers, and presented Little Richard to the evening breezes.

Let's pause to examine some points of logic not considered by our hero and his minions:

Point 1: It was a ­dry, drought plagued August. A time when the threat of forest fire would be at its highest.

Point 2: Night duty in a watch tower would be on the low rung of the Forestry Service, so it was more likely that Rangers would be dropped off at a series of towers, rather than that each would have a vehicle to drive to the duty.

Point 3: In order to preserve night vision, a watcher would sit in a dark tower.

Not considering those points, R began to sigh the sigh of relief sighed by men since the days of peeing out of the mouths of caves.

From behind R, inside the dark tower cabin, came a low, growling voice. “What the hell are you doing.”

Forever after, R referred to that night as, “The time I damn near tested my power of flight.”

The Toot Scoop.

Beagle clocks only have 4 numbers on them. There is: Breakfast o'clock; Milk Bone o'clock (known otherwise as Elevenses); Supper o'clock; and Evening Rawhide o'clock.

They have no need of 12 or 24 divisions of the day. Instead of minutes, they divide the above major markers by naps and squirrel frenzies. For instance, one would say, “It was two and a half squirrel frenzies past Breakfast.” And that would be specific enough for beagle needs.

The Posse was having a relaxing Sunday watching the front channel on beagle TV, it was about 2 squirrel frenzies and a nap past Milk Bone, when someone came walking down the street with three handsome black dogs—probably Labs, but in beaglese, there are only two breeds, “beagle” and “not beagle.”

The Posse began it's usual braying dissertation on canine looks, ancestry, and county-wide property rights. At the same instant they both notice that one of the labs is wearing a cone. They go silent as abruptly as O'Reilly turning off a liberal guest's microphone.

A Posse look passes, as they start trying to figure out what they are seeing. Tommy speaks up first, “It's a Squirreldar antenna. It focuses his rodent radar so he can zero in. I want one.”

Tuppence snorts. “I've been to the vet. I know what that is. It's a torture device evil humans put on dogs to keep them from licking the things that really need licking.”

Tommy's trusting heart is confused. “Humans wouldn't do something that mean, would they?”

Tuppence replies, “You think not? How many balls do you have left?”

The Posse, being an even number, has no method of breaking a tie vote. So, each impasse must be settled by a thundering, tumbling, snarling, yipping discussion up and down the hall. Sometimes it takes three trips to reach consensus. Each Posse meeting requires several of these tie-breakers.

After they finished, a panting Tommy said, “Yep, Squirreldar. I want one.”

Tuppy says, “No dog wants one. They look silly.”

Tommy stretched and said, “I'D look studly.”

Tuppy shook her ears and asked, “Studly? Again, how many balls do you have left?”

Tommy looked to the side channel of beagle TV and muttered. “I'd look GOOD.”

Then Tuppy yips in epiphany. “I know what that is. It's an air scoop, like on the front of a jet. It helps scoop up air you can store up and use for passing wind. Yeah, it's a good idea after all.”

I had to finally speak up. “The last thing I want around here is something that will make you two gassier.”

Tommy shot back, “Yeah, well, you blame us no matter who toots.”

They both nodded and said, “Yep, a Toot Scoop. Cool.”

They then closed the discussion by turning their backs, sitting down, and beginning to lick anything they felt needed licking.

Weekend bonus: Beagle Silly.

A neighbor who reads the Posse Chronicles came by and said, “I think you're making this all up.”

I asked what he meant. He said, “I'VE never heard your beagles talk, and I've lived in the neighborhood 5 years.”

I said, “OK, I'll prove it for you.” I called the Posse in.

I asked them to sit and said, “Bill doesn't think you talk, so we're going to show him. What covers a tree?”

Together, the Posse said, “Bark.”

Bill looked disgusted. So I said, “And what holds a tree to the ground?”

Tuppence replied, “Root.”

Bill snorted. So I followed with, “What's on top of the house?”

Tommy supplied, “Roof.”

Bill snarled. Nice trick. I'll give you one more try. So I went with a tough one, “Who's the greatest baseball player of all time?”

The Posse spoke up, “Ruth.”

Bill stormed off, snapping, “I knew you were lying and making it up.”

Watching him go, Tommy looked up and asked, “Should we have said DiMaggio?”

We're in trouble. The Lieutenant's got an idea.

A constant strain in any army is the work of sergeants to keep new lieutenants from getting themselves or someone else killed until they can gain enough knowledge and humility to become a useful officer.

Some never get there.

One day in 1970, Headquarters and Headquarters Company (Head and Head) at Long Binh got presented with its very own example.

They got one Lt. Clayton Wood. Fresh from a major personal screw up. The son of a well-connected family in Tennessee, he had managed to snag a place in the Tenn. National Guard. A sure berth, in those days, to keep out of Vietnam. Ah, but you noticed we're speaking of his arrival in Asia. It seems the young prince had amassed such a record of failure to attend weekend meetings that he was punished by being placed on active duty, and sent to VN. It soon became clear that his arrival was not just punishment for him.

The first clue came when the Orderly Room clerk was sent over to the Replacement Depot to pick him up and bring him to the company. Upon climbing into the jeep, the looie asked, “How far, corporal?”

“About 4 Klicks, Sir.” (The Army in VN spoke in meters and kilometers. “Klick” was GI slang for kilometer.)

When they pulled up in front of the Orderly Room, the Lt. said, “Get the jeep looked at. I didn't hear the speedometer click once.”

Lt. Wood's looks revealed his Welsh heritage. He had a long torso and stubby legs. He was round-headed. In fact, he looked like every round-head, spike haired, dumb bad boy you've seen in cartoons.

He began to hold formations for the troops the next day. Something no other office in the unit did. He held morning formation, Guard Mount, and who can remember what else. These allowed him to strut up and down in front of soldiers, pontificating, and smoking a cigar to seat what he thought was his John Wayne/Glenn Ford image as an officer. Except, of course, Wood couldn't smoke a real cigar, so he used the small, plastic tipped Tiparillos. He'd wave and gesticulate with them, finally punctuating his rant by manfully slamming the stogie back into his mouth, and growling, “Dismissed!”

During his first Guard Mount formation, he began to bellow to the 6 men lined up, “The S-2 report....” (S-2 was Battalion level Intelligence.) The company First Sergeant came flying out of the Orderly Room. “Lieutenant! We do not yell the intell report.”

“Huh?”

“There are EARS, Sir.” Gesturing round.

Lt. Wood winks, nods, and taps the side of his nose as if to say, “I was just testing the men.”

As the sergeant returned to his office, he was heard to sum up both the Lt.'s brains and ancestry in a single muttered phrase.

He put several soldiers on report for falling to the ground laughing the day he got to waving his smoke so wildly he forgot which end was which, and slammed the burning end back into his mouth.

Luckily, his visit wasn't to be a long one.

One night his name came up in the rotation for Officer of the Day at the perimeter bunkers. (see earlier stories for information about them)

Just as the sun was going down, the Head and Head bunker began hearing the smack of an occasional sniper round into the sand bags. A fairly common harassment, the troops knew to just keep low, and Charlie would give up and go home to dinner at dark.

But Lt. Wood heard the AK out there in the dark and rang down the line on the field phone.
“Who's firing down there?”

“Just a sniper, Sir, he'll be........”

“I'll be right there.”

“Sir, there's no.... Sir? Sir?”

The jeep roars up, the Lt. Jumps out and storms into the bunker. “Where is he?”

“Sir, he isn't hitting anything. He'll go away.”

“I'm gonna call in artillery on him.”

“WHAT!!??”

The Lt. runs out the back and climbs onto the top of the bunker so he can spot the sniper. He reaches down and demands the phone, then stands up. Making a perfect silhouette against the twilight sky.

The four men in the bunker pushed their helmets down and slid below the level of the open firing port.

From out there in the tree line beyond the rice paddies, you could almost hear the soft click of the selector on the AK being pushed to full auto.

A burst of 6 ofr7 rounds came in. Charlie missed low, and the bullets slapped into the sand bags under the Lt.'s feet. One was just high enough to catch the heel of his boot and fling him to safety off the back of the bunker. Breaking his ankle.

First Lieutenant Clayton Wood, of the Tennessee National Guard, had just dumbassed himself into the Million Dollar Wound. A Purple Heart, and a ticket home.

Somewhere in a small country club bar in Tennessee, a sweaty, chubby, stubby man has scored innumerable Scotches with his tales of manly derring-do, and the time he was a “By God, leader of MEN!” in the Great Asian War.

Posse Test Mode.

I had settled down to work on a blog entry. I had my laptop, my coffee, a couple of cookies, and was comfortably attired in my nylon around-the-house shorts. A professional workspace for writing.

The barking from the front door hit like a sonic boom, and crescendoed. My startle response coated my bare legs and my chair with steaming coffee. I could have sued McDonalds, except I made the coffee myself.

Then, as Tuppence hit a howl pitch that would delaminate Formica, I tried to get up and go see what evil approached. In doing so, I tangled in my laptop cord and slammed a hip into a lamp table. I'm sure that left a mark.

Finally untangled and just slightly scalded, I limped into the front room. By then the Posse had stopped barking, and was calmly moving to curl up on the furniture.

“WHAT the hell was that?” I gritted.

Circling in lie down prep, Tuppy muttered, “A test.”

“A what?! I'm burned, bruised, and battered, and you say, 'test'?”

Finally Tuppence stopped and looked at me. “That was a Test of the Emergency Barkcast System. Had it been an actual emergency, you would have been told where to tune, and what to do.”

“That was all over nothing?”

“It was over a test. That's something. It could have been anything, we need to keep the system finely honed.”

“Could have been.......” Again, they had me sputtering.

“It could have been an Ape Walking, Neanderthal Browed, Moss Backed Swamp Stomper.”

“Yeah, right here in the 'burbs. You two are crazy.”

“Maybe,” says Tommy, wriggling into a cushion, “But we're not the one who writes about talking to dogs.”

“So, when's the next test of this Emergency Barkcast System?”

Tupp, “If we told you, it wouldn't be a test. Give us a treat or go back to work, or both.”

I walked out. They settled in to work on their primary occupation, nap testing. They're sent naps from Beagle Central, and they test them for Depth and Duration. Tupp told me that.

Posse Folk Wisdom.

At that moment, there was nothing but the scenery showing on Beagle TV. There was no traffic on the Front Window channel, and no tree rodents on the Side Door channel. Still, the Posse was glued to the set.

I happened to be sitting in the living room with them, spending highly productive time on pointless FaceBook chatter. A young teen boy with a skateboard walked down the street and turned up our drive. The drive has a bit of a slope, and he put the board down to take advantage of it and give himself added momentum.

I was confused as the Posse watched him skate away and spoke not a word. Not even a little throat growl. Generally, when a leaf blows up the walk, let alone a cat, a postman, Fedex man, or UPS driver, (Feel free to substitute “woman” for “man” in any of those descriptors. It makes no difference to the Posse.) any person, animal, or even imaginary being, Tommy and Tuppence let loose with a frenzy of barking sufficient to announce the Apocalypse.

Nothing this time.

I nudged them, “Hey, why didn't you warn me about that boy?”

Tommy looked over his shoulder and explained, “Because of the ancient Canine folk tale. There is a lot to be learned from the ancestors.”

Canine folk tale? “And just what tale is this?” I asked.

With an impatient sigh, Tuppence explained, “The Wolf Who Cried “Boy.”