Beagle is a Verb

It’s not always smart to ask busy beagles what they are up to. The Beagle Posse had made several trips up and down the hall, purposefully trotting back and forth as if preparing for something.  I sat and watched. 

On one of the passes, Tuppence said to me, “You better get a pen and paper, we’re about to begin your first lesson.”

“I don’t remember signing up for any lessons,” I said.

Tommy tossed over his shoulder, “We took care of your enrollment.  It’s for your own good.”

“It’s for your own good,” is one of those phrases which contain a built in lie.  Like, “Someone needs to tell you,”  “Only a friend would say,”  “You’ll just feel a little pressure,” and “Believe me.”  Immediately, I got suspicious.

Finally they arrayed themselves in front of me with an aspect of great purpose.

“It gets tiresome,” says Tuppence, “to have to always talk to you in Human.  So, we have decided to teach you to speak Beagle.”

“That’s a language?” I asked.

“Shut up and learn,” snapped Tuppence.

I said, “Well, even if I learn Beagle, I’ll still have to translate for the readers.”

“That’s the beauty of teaching you here in the blog,” said Tommy.  “The readers get the same lessons you do, and they will learn Beagle too.”

“Uh huh.”

“OK,” said Tuppy, “We’ll start with the easiest word in our language.  Repeat after me, Woof.”

“That’s just,” I started.

“REPEAT,” said Tupp.

“Woof,” I said.

“You need to hold your mouth longer, and start deeper in your throat,” said Tommy.

“Woof,” I said.  “What’s that mean?”

“Woof?” said Tommy.

“Yeah, Woof.  What’s it mean?”

“Woof,” said Tommy again.

“It means, Woof,” said Tuppence.

“Well,” I asked, “what part of speech is it?  How is it used in a sentence.”

“It IS a sentence,” said Tuppence.

“But I’ve heard you say a bunch of woofs in a row,” I said.

“That’s a paragraph,” Tommy said.

“What,” I tried again, “is Beagle sentence structure?  Is woof a noun, a verb, a pronoun, an adjective, a gerund?”

Tuppence said, “We saw a Gerund once out on the bird feeder.  It wasn’t sure what it was.” 

The Posse leaned against each other laughing.  They thought this was very funny.  Then Tuppence continued, “Beagle language doesn’t have parts of speech.  Every word is a verb.  Every word means for you or someone or something to do something.   Like feed us or run.”

I said, “The only Beagle words I’ve heard you guys say are woof, aaarrooooo, whine, and growl.”

“It’s a question of context,” said Tuppence.  What woof means depends on how you say woof.  And how you hold your tail.  Now, try saying woof again, and wag your tail harder as you do.”

“I don’t have a tail,” I said.

“If you aren’t even going to try, we can’t teach you anything,” said Tommy.

“Woof,” I said.  “When do I get to learn growls?  I kind of feel one coming on.”

“Growls are in the advanced class,” said Tuppence.

“And aaarrooooo isn’t a word,” said Tommy.  “It is a song.”

“OK, now,” said Tuppence, “now that you and the readers have had lessons in Beagle, since you’re always telling stories about us, we’re going to tell a story about you.”

The Beagle Posse looked at each other, nodded, and began together:

Woof Woof Woof Woof

Woof woof woof woof woof woof woof.  Woof woof woof woof woof.

Woof woof woof WOOF!

And they walked off laughing uproariously with each other.

Squirrelsquatch.

It is like a scene from “The Idylls of the King.”   I am settled on one end of the couch, Kindle in hand, second cup o’ at my elbow, screen open to a nice frivolous Phryne Fisher mystery, ready for a relaxing read.  The Beagle Posse is curled up at the other end of the couch, snoozing away in the large sun spot streaming in through the East window.  A quiet morning in heaven—or Indianapolis, anyway.

Suddenly, like a single switch is thrown, both beagles spring into howling action and tear across my lap at full throat, headed down the hall.  They knock the Kindle from my hand, and, since I am wearing shorts and a t-shirt, leave beagle claw acceleration furrows across both of my thighs and my left forearm.  My armor must be at the cleaners.

I can hear the Posse in the back yard.  They sound like a thousand beagle auctioneers trying to sell an Arrrooo!  I need to check. So I pass by the kitchen to grab a paper towel to dab at the drops of red beginning to appear on the claw furrows, and go to the back. 

Tommy and Tuppence are absolutely frantic.  Tearing around the back yard and jumping at the fences like they are hearing a dog-whistle pitched trumpet in the clouds announcing a second coming.  I see and hear nothing but their carrying on.

“Dogs!  Dogs!  Posse! Tommy! Tuppence! Settle down.  What’s up?”

It takes a while, but I get their attention, and get them to come to me and explain.  They gallop up, panting, whining with pent up rage, and popping back and forth through the dog door.  Tommy is the first to get his breath.  “Sasquatch!  LOTS of Sasquatch!  Sasquatcheses.  Sasquatchi.  Big Foots.  Big Feets.  An Invasion!”

“No,” I say, “I don’t think so.  It’s a nice cool, sunshiny September morning.  You’re in a suburb of Indianapolis, Indiana.  I doubt we’re under attack from a clan of mythical monsters.  I doubt there’s even one out here. And you scratched hell out of my legs and arm. Look at this.”

Tommy breathlessly says, “Small price to pay for protection from those Ape Men.  They won’t scratch your arm.  They’ll tear your arm clean off.”  He takes up the howl again, dashes through the dog door saying, “Can’t you smell their evil scaly, slimy fur?”

“Posse, the only thing I smell is the beagle BS you are spouting.  There ARE no Big Foot monsters.  Not here.  Not anywhere.”

Tuppence, the beagle voice of reason, finally catches her breath to say, “OK.  OK, then.  It’s mountain lions.  Pumas.  Lots and lots.  Huge, snarling, ravening cats.  Howling and clawing at the fences.  Save yourself.  We’ll hold ‘em off as long as we can.”

“Ravening?” I ask.

“In the worst possible way,” says Tuppy.  And the mindless barking, bugling, and banging back and forth through the dog door raises again to a level of eleven.  “And we’re gonna need extra treats for energy for the battle.  Go get ‘em.”

“No.  No treats for this nonsense.  There are no Sasquatch.  There are no Mountain Lions.  This is a simple backyard.  The only disturbance is a couple of crazy beagles.”

“OK.  OK,” pants Tuppy.  “Then it could be those two Hell Hounds from up the street. Bloodthirsty man eaters on the prowl.”

I think for a minute.  “You mean the two Chihuahuas?”

“Yes!” declares Tommy.  “With their slobbery, vicious fangs.”

I’m tiring of this.  “They don’t weigh much over two pounds between them, and they aren’t allowed out of their yard.  I think we’re safe for the moment.

“OK, Posse, we’ve gone from Big Foot to Chihuahuas in less than three minutes.  What’s really going on out here?”

“Well,” says Tommy, “maybe we heard a squirrel.”

“A squirrel?”

“Maybe.  A really vicious one.  Really vicious.”

“A squirrel?”

“Maybe.”

“We’ll let you know if he comes back.”

The Beagle in the World

A Travelogue. 

(As written by Tommy Beagle)

She’s putting on her walking shoes.  She’s putting on her walking shoes. She’s putting on her walking shoes.

Leash. Leash. Leash.

Yes, yes, yes, it’s Walkies.  WALKIES.

Whadda ya mean, “sit?”  I can’t wait.

Open the door.  C’mon, open the door.  Open. Open. Open.

Oh, Wow, the whole world is still here.

Look, look.  Grass, trees, sidewalk.

Oop.  Gotta pee.

Smells. Smells. Smells.

Pee mail check on the mailbox post.

Leave answer.

Squirrel!

This is my favorite street.

Pee mail check on the telephone pole.

Leave answer.

Bunny!

The Park!  My favorite.

Ducks! Ducks! Ducks!

Meet friends.  Sniff butts.

Squirrel!

Smells.  More smells. More smells.

I don’t wanta leave the park.

Wow.  The street from the other direction looks like a whole new street.  My favorite.

Ditch walking.

Ditch walking.

Ditch walking.

Pee mail check on Stop Sign.

Leave answer.

I can see home.  Come ON!

Chipmunk!

Look at me.  Studly beagle coming down your street.

My door.  Open it.  Open it.

Water, must have huge gulps.

Leash off. Curling up on my couch.

Whew!

How come you never take us on walkies? It’s been forever since walkies.

A Gem of Military Prose

Military prose has its own cadence, syntax, grammar, and logic.

For instance, a set of orders might tell a soldier. “Rpt NLT 1400, Orderly Rm, Co. C, 5^th Bn.  Having Had.”  All that meant was that the solder was to report to the headquarters office of Company C of the 5^th Battalion, before 2 pm, and was to have already eaten lunch (having had).

One Vietnam evening, Jesse came into the hooch with a folder.  He had borrowed it from his work in the USARV assignments office, and had to share what he swore was, “The single finest example of military prose since Caesar observed that he Vini Vidi Vici in Gaul.”

He had the personnel file of one PFC Smith, perhaps the most accomplished screw up in the war zone.  At least the biggest who was still living.  Smith was 9 months into his 12 month tour, and had already been reassigned 4 times.  Each unit choosing the “boot him along” option as opposed to all of the paperwork of a court martial.  His list of infractions was both lengthy and ingenious.  And, the cherry on top—he was a 31 Bravo, an MP.  A cop.

At present, Smith was in the Central Highlands with the MP detachment of the 4^th Infantry Division.  Jesse had the dilemma of trying to find a worse place to send Smith next.  There just wasn’t much worse than Infantry in the Central Highlands. But the reason Jesse had brought the file round to display was a single sentence of military prose.  In fact, the final line in the folder.  The last line written by Smith’s commanding officer in the document justifying the request that the PFC be transferred.

A couple of days earlier, there had been a Battalion formation to introduce the new commanding officer.  Depending on its mission, a battalion at full strength will be between 600 and 1,000 soldiers.  If it is at full strength.  In Vietnam, few were ever actually at full strength.

As the formation was dismissed and broke up, with a few hundred men wandering about a dusty parade ground, there was an informal meeting of the new CO, the Executive Officer of the battalion, and the Sergeant Major, along with the Company Commander and First Sergeant from Smith’s company.  There was no indication in the file what the meeting was about, but it might be safe to say there was a good chance the problem of PFC Smith was under discussion.  A CS Tear Gas grenade suddenly landed in the middle of this meeting group, and it began vigorously delivering its contents.

Then came the sentence that had awed Jesse.  The words he felt were historic and, in their own way, poetic.

“Although there is no substantive proof that PFC Smith did in fact deploy said ordinance, PFC Smith was only EM (enlisted man) in the area both in possession of, and wearing, a gas mask.”

The Adorable Basket

It was the most accusing Beagle tone I’d heard since the last time I was five minutes late with the Posse’s supper.

“You haven’t announced what basket we’re in.”  Snarled Tuppence.

I was momentarily confused. (my usual)  “What baskets are we talking about?  Why do you need a basket?”

“You humans,” said Tommy, “are busy going around saying what people are in what basket, and we need you to announce what basket beagles are in.”

The latest news cycle, the presidential campaign, all came rushing back to me then.  “Oh.  OK, I guess I’d put you in the Eat and Sleep basket.”

“BUZZZZZZTTTT!!!” shouted Tommy.  “Wrong.”

“We’re in the Adorable Basket, “explained Tuppence.

“The Adorable Basket? Hmmmmmm.”

“Well,” she continued, in THAT tone, “we certainly aren’t deplorable, so we go in the Adorable.----HEY, I made a rhyme.”

“I’ve made worse,” I admitted.  “But, just what do you think makes beagles eligible for the Adorable Basket?”

“We just ARE,” said Tuppence.

“You just are?”

Going kind of Cosmic, Tuppence said, “Beagles ARE.  By our very nature, and our state of being, we sort into the Adorable Basket.”

Tommy felt inclined to add, “We are adorable because we BE.  We just BE.  It’s right there in our name.  BE-gles.”  (Evidently spelling doesn’t count in beagle metaphysics.)

Tuppence picked up the thread.  “We try to teach that to you humans.  You could live happier if you were more about being and less about doing.  After all, you aren’t called ‘Human Doings.”

“Tupp,” I said, “I think you’re taking this blog in a far too fantastical direction there.  No one is going to believe beagles think that deeply.”

“Oh,” she said, “we didn’t think it.  We read it somewhere.”

“And that’s believable?” I asked.  “Dogs reading?”

The Posse ignored me.

“OK,” I said, to get the discussion back on track,  “You say you just BE.  But when you’re digging for chipmunks, chasing field mice, or barking madly up the tree at squirrels, you are certainly DOING.”

“No,” sighed Tommy.  “We’re BE-ing BE-gles.  Chasing rodents is how we BE.”

Too circular for me.  I said, “So, are all dogs in the Adorable Basket, or just beagles?”

“Most dogs,” said Tuppence.  “All beagles.”

“How democratic of you,” I said.  “What about McDuff next door.”

“Adorable.”

“Adorable.”

“And your online friends Portia and Cleopatra?”

Two paws up for Adorable.

“How about your Great Dane cousins out on the ranch in Nebraska?”

Tuppy got the explanation look in her eye.  “Great Danes are a special case.  They are in the Adorable Basket for about the first twelve to sixteen weeks of their life.  Then they move right on into the HOLY MOLY Basket.”

“So, you beagles put any kind of dog in your Adorable Basket.  You don’t sort by size, color, breed, flea status, or anything like that?”

“Of course we don’t,” said Tuppence.  “Sorting like that would be deplorable.”

Shortround

We met Shortround at the Induction Center in Kansas City.  That’s where all draftees and enlistees from Missouri began their military journey—the prodding, poking, eye-testing, “bend over and spread your cheeks” place where they decided if you were healthy enough to die for your country. (An Induction Center is where you find the “Group W Bench” made famous in song by Arlo Guthrie.)

We didn’t call him “Shortround” at the time.  A Sergeant at Fort Leonard Wood would give him that name.  Rocco, from St. Louis, called him, “You Stupid Little Shit.”  Rocco was a poet.

He was the shortest, scrawniest guy in the group going through medical.  He looked 15, but was proud to tell us he had just turned 17, dropped out of High School, and got “my mama” to sign the waiver so he could enlist.  He had an older brother already in the Army, and loudly-proudly let us all know, “I'm going Airborne.  I’m gonna kill Cong!”  He already had a US ARMY gym bag/carrier in which all of his prized possessions were carried.

“Airborne,” he proclaimed repeatedly.  “That’s where they teach you to be a real killer.  You learn to kill Cong with knives, guns, your BARE hands.”  About the time we were all truly sick of hearing this rant, his lethal bare hand was needed by a medic, so that his finger could be pricked for a drop of blood.

At the sight of that drop of blood, our Cong killing recruit fainted dead away and dropped to the floor.  Without a parachute.

Thus began a two-day drama that had several future veterans taking bets on events.  Every time a needle approached Shortround, whether to take blood out, or to put vaccine in, he fainted.  Of course, any time he was conscious, he was still proclaiming his plans at Airborne Cong slaughter.

(An explanation:  A “Shortround” is a shot from an artillery gun that, due to malfunction or misloading, falls short of its intended target.  Usually causing damage to friendly troops.  It is also a common name applied to vertically challenged soldiers in basic training.  Drill Sergeants being known, of course, for their depth of concern for the feelings of the recruits placed in their charge.)

Back to this particular short round.  He fainted on the finger prick.  He fainted on the inner arm blood draw.  He fainted on the tetanus shot.  And the typhoid shot. And the DPT shot.  From the Induction Center in Kansas City, to the Reception and Processing Center at Fort Wood, he seemed to spend as much time on the floor as on his feet.

The first thing as you step off the bus at the training center—Fort Wood in this case—you are “invited” to step up to a box and deposit all “contraband.”  These are the items the Army does not allow a recruit in training to have.  Contraband ranges from weapons and drugs, to candy and pornography.  Upon inspection of that Army gym bag, Shortround was relieved of three pocket knives and four Playboy magazines.  I never did quite figure out the relationship or the ratio of those two sets of items.

The final winner of the Shortround Sweepstakes, though, was when we were given the polio vaccine.  These were the days when the medical world was changing from the Salk vaccine injections to the Sabin oral vaccine.  So, each soldier was handed a sugar cube with a cherry-flavored drop on it.

Shortround popped his in his mouth, promptly turned white-faced, and dropped to the concrete. He awoke upchucking the vaccine and about 5 recent meals.

For the next couple of months of training, Shortround continued to proclaim his lofty goal of Asian carnage.  All the while struggling to complete nearly every training task.  He nearly failed Basic Training.  (Yes, you could fail Basic.  Either the physical fitness part, the “mental” parts, or, of course, the marksmanship requirements.  If you did fail, though, you didn’t get sent home.  You got “recycled”.  Sent back to do the whole Basic Training thing again.)

Shortround squeaked under the low bar, still proclaiming, on the day of graduation, his aim to “go Airborne and kill Cong.”

The Army was smart enough not to give him his wish.  Why put a Platoon or Company of expensively trained Airborne troops in that kind of danger?   Shortround spent the war under trucks in the motor pool, changing oil.  But he was the most badass wrench monkey in the whole US Army.

Abandonment issues

Tommy stuck his nose in my face.  “That was totally unacceptable.”

“What was, Tommy?”

“Both of you leaving for days and days and weeks and weeks, and many suppers.”

I understood.  “Tommy, Buddy, we were only gone for four days, and we left someone to take care of you.”

He sniffed, “A day is like a thousand years in the sight of the Beagle.”

“I’m not sure that’s an accurate citation of the verse.  Besides, we needed to visit Deborah’s family.  Both of her brothers were there that weekend. It looks to me like you have abandonment issues.”

“We don’t have issues.  We were abandoned.  That’s the issue.  Your family is all right here.  And half of it has four legs each.”

“Tommy, you know that’s not true.  You and Tuppence love it when daughter Tess visits.  In fact, Tuppy abandons us to sleep with her.  She’s family.”

“She is occasionally.  AND, she comes to visit us.  You don’t have to leave.”

It probably wasn’t the time to tell Tommy we are traveling next month to Tess’s wedding.

About then Tuppence walked in from playing with the Cicada she had brought through the dog door into the bed room.  I asked both of them, “You like Chloe, don’t you?  She’s taken care of you before, and you always go bonkers when she visits.  And you like to go for walks with her dog McDuff.”

Tommy shot back, “She’s nice.  But we don’t have her wrapped around our little toe like we do…………..”

Tuppence snarled and hissed at Tommy, “Shhhh, hush, don’t remind him of that.”

“Look, I said, you didn’t want to go with us to the ranch.  They have three large Great Danes, a Labradoodle, and 17 horses who can step on unwary city dogs.”

Tuppence said, “We smelled all of that on you when you got home.  We knew you’d been dog cheating.”

“No such thing,” I said.  “Believe me, smelling the Great Danes and looking into the maw of a Dane are two different things.”

Tommy puffed up.  “I’m as badass as a Great Dane.”

“Yeah, sure, Tommy.  But see, you’re 27 pounds of ass, good or bad, and Rory alone is 180 pounds of badass.  The math doesn’t work in your favor.  And that doesn’t count the 150 pounds each of Vanna and Tash---plus the horses.”

“Anyway, Posse,” I continued. “ You don’t like car rides.  And that one was 10 hours each way.”

Tuppence turned her back on me.  “Cars take us to the vet.”

“You might be surprised to know,” I said, “that I drive myself to the doctor—that’s what we call a human veterinarian.”

Tommy said, “We’re not talking about your sanity, or lack, here.  We’re talking about you abandoning us to the mercies of nature.”

“What?  You stayed in your own home.  You had the sofa for day sleeping, and the bed for night sleeping.  Chloe gave you breakfast, supper, elevenses, and evening raw hide.  And you had your dog door to come and go to the back yard when you wanted.”

“See,” snapped Tuppence, “you’re just lucky we’re such self-reliant dogs.”

“Self reliant?  Self reliant?  You get food and treats several times a day, brought to you and put in your bowls by a human.  The A/C was running to keep the house cool for you, and I happen to know that Chloe played with you and gave you many scratches every day we were gone.”

“And,” Tuppy quickly interjected, “we had to climb up on the sofa, and the bed, and push the dog door open all by ourselves.”

“You do that when I’m here,“ I said.  (Thinking to myself, they seem to have the same world view as some “self-made men” we know.)

“You’re our back up system.”

So there it is, I’m reduced to a rusting backup generator for a pair of dogs.  For this I went to college?

Tuppy continued, “We voted.  You are not to leave the house again without permission of all residents—all Beagle residents.”

“That’s going to make it kind of tough, “ I said.  “Can’t I even go to the grocery store?”

Tuppence pondered.  Then she asked, “Do you get our dog food at the grocery store?”

“No, I order it from Amazon.  The bags are heavy, and they bring it right to the door.”

“Then, no,” said Tuppence, “you can’t go to the grocery store.  As long as Amazon delivers our food, there’s no need.”

Having exhausted themselves from the effort of negotiating with a lesser being, the Beagle Posse went through the dog door into the yard, peed, came back in, climbed up on the sofa, and went to sleep.  Waiting for the time to self-reliantly walk over to their supper dishes.