THE SAINT VACCINATION MEDAL.

The Beagle Posse was restless.   At least twice in the hour they had roused from their couch naps and circled a couple of times before sighing and sinking down for more sleep.  One time, Tuppence even stretched and yawned during the interval.  They even disturbed MY nap.

“OK, dogs.  Wake up and tell me what’s going on.”

“Later,” mumbled Tuppence.

Even the faintest chirrup of a squirrel, or the sound of a single food crumb hitting the kitchen floor will bring them instantly awake.  In the first instance, not only awake, but madly barking, bugling, and slamming through the dog door in full cry. But unless there is food or walkies involved, it is taken as a great imposition for any human to suggest a break in a nap.  Naps are a beagle sacrament.  As are tree peeing, butt sniffing, and garbage snarfing.

Not to be deterred, I said, “Wow, look at that lizard.”

“Whut? Huh? Where?  I’ll get him. No, he’s mine.”

“See,” I said, you’re awake. Now, what’s flashing through those ummmmm, some call them ‘brains’?”

Tommy snorted, “Well, you moved us to Texas.  What do you expect?”

“We moved you to a nice apartment, right near a great dog park, in a warm, friendly city—a city, I might add, Tommy, that doesn’t get that ‘weenie deep’ snow you snarled and complained about in Indiana.”

“A place with Chupacabras,” said Tommy. “Even you should be worried.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Of course there is, “insisted Tommy.  “If they weren’t real, there wouldn’t be a name for them.”

Now, there, I thought, is as perfect an example of beagle logic as has ever been constructed. But, I tried again to reason.  “No, there isn’t.  It’s a legend, made up tales about an animal no one has ever really seen.  I mean, really, ‘goat sucker?”  That’s what ‘chupacabra’ means, Tommy. The same root as you see on those displays of candy suckers by the cash register in Mexican restaurants, ‘Chupachups’—suckers.”

“And when,” Tommy demanded, “was the last time you took us to a restaurant?”

“Don’t change the subject,” I said. “Besides, you basically eat every meal in a restaurant.  You bark an order; somebody serves you food; you eat it and walk away; somebody cleans up your dishes.  And you don’t even pick up the check. Now, there is no night-stalking monster that sucks goat blood.  And you aren’t a goat anyway.”

Tommy snapped, “We’re built lower than goats.  Easier to get to.”

“Don’t interrupt.  As I was saying, the Chupacabra isn’t even an OLD legend.  The first mention anyone can find is in Puerto Rico in 1995, and as described then, it resembled the monster in a recently published science fiction book.  Most researchers think the name was made up by a Puerto Rican comedian.”  (ed. note:  This is all true, you can check Google or another search engine.)

Tommy turned his back.  “Well, I guess you’ll believe it when the fiend fangs your ass and sucks out a pint or two.”

I noticed Tuppence wasn’t saying much in this discussion.  “Tupp, girl, what do you think?”

She stopped licking her parts long enough to say, “Well, mostly my nap was disturbed by Tommy.  I’m not worried about the Sucker.  I have my medal.”

“What medal?”

“My Saint Vaccination medal.  When you put it round my neck you said, ‘There, you’re protected.’  I feel pretty safe. And I get a fresh, recharged one every year.”

“Tommy has one too,” I said.  “How come he’s scared?”

“Besides that he’s a little fraidy cat weenie?” asked Tuppence. “Well, he doesn’t believe in Saint Vaccination and Vaccinationism.  Tommy is a Dogtheist.”

“Is that like a canine atheist?”

“No,” Tommy turned back around. “It means I believe in Dog Dieties.  You know, Sirius, the Dog Star, and the constellation Canus Major.  They’re right there.  Easy to see.”

“Well,” I pondered, “then why are you afraid of the Chupacabra? Don’t you think your gods will protect you?”

“Not their job,” said Tommy.  “Besides, STAR, CONSTELLATION.  Duh. They’re a long, long way off. Like, further than Indiana.”

I chose not to get into a discussion of celestial distance with an animal who thinks rodent is a delicacy. “And that’s what you call your religion, is it?”

Tuppence, ever philosophical, leapt to Tommy’s defense.  “Hey, 4,300 plus human religions in the world—with gods no one has ever seen, and you question Tommy?  That star is right up there to look at every night.  You read Heinlein, don’t you?”

And I remembered. “One man’s religion is another man’s belly laugh.”—Robert A. Heinlein.

Of course, I’m not sure if old Bob ever gave much thought to beagle theology.  I see him as more of an Irish Setter kind of guy.

Posse Support Dogs.

Tuppence was sitting on the couch, examining a left fore claw.  “You need to get to work getting us registered.”

I said, “Tupp, you are, registered.  You’re vaccinated; I paid the license tax; you have a tag, and everything.”

“No, you need to get us registered for our jobs, and get us some of those ‘Don’t mess with the dog’ vests.  Those vests are cool.”

Enlightenment.  “Oh, you mean like service dog vests.  But you guys aren’t service dogs.”

“Well, we aren’t yet, because you have been too lazy to register us.”

“Service dogs have jobs.  Like helping blind people, and deaf people, and veterans with PTSD, and people with epilepsy.  They do wonderful work.  They’re trained.  All you do is sleep, bark at squirrels and UPS drivers, and forget the command to ‘sit and stay.’”

Tommy jumps in.  “We’re so good at our job that you don’t even notice.”

“Yeah,” I said, ”it’s pretty invisible.  Sort of like a Right Fielder for the Baltimore Orioles.”

Tommy ignored me and went on, “We’re more like Emotional Support dogs.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “In reverse.  You demand that we emotionally support you, scratching tummies on demand and such.”

They both snorted.  But not with any humor.

I have evidently never learned my lesson about trying to explain to beagles.  I started.  “Guys, real Service Dogs are great and wonderful animals.  They give people lives they might not otherwise be able to live.  It’s not a matter of just registering.  It is a matter of training and doing.”

“So,” said Tuppence, “you gonna get the registering done or not?  Or do we have to hack your Google Chrome again.”

This worried me.  The last time they tried to use my computer, they ended up wiping out the BIOS, but only after ordering 15 Salad Shooters.  And they don’t eat salad.  “No, no.  Let’s just talk this through and see if there is anything or anyplace you can be registered.”  (When you’re going to be nibbled to death anyway, it’s best to surrender early.)  “What is the service you perform?”

Tuppence replied, “We said it’s kind of ‘emotional support’.  We’re Humility Support dogs.”

“What?”

“We keep you from getting a big head.  Now, order our vests.”

“I want mine in purple,” said Tommy.

“Pink, with mink, for the Lady,” said Tuppence.

I kind of blew up.  “I can’t believe I’m dumb enough to listen and put up with this.”

“See,” said Tuppence, “We’re helping you stay humble.  No need to thank us.”

The day of the dark, barn cats, frogs, and the mooning of the Beagle Posse.

In late August, the Beagle Posse took its longest road trip ever.  (Even including the move from Indiana to Texas, which is a subject for another tale entirely.)  We traveled from San Antonio to Hebron, Nebraska to be in the path of totality for the Solar Eclipse. 

Our destination was the horse and Great Dane farm where my wife’s brother lives with his lovely wife.  There they breed both hunter-jumper horses, and very large Euro Great Danes.  Resident are 14 horses and 4 dogs that are as big as ponies—plus a couple of barn cats.  More about one of the cats later.  It was a perfect opportunity for a family visit and  once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event, and it was only 4 states away.  So, tooth brushes, Amazon Eclipse Glasses, and beagles in hand, we set off.

A couple of the Danes had previously visited our house in Indianapolis, and, frankly, the Posse was not all that interested in a renewed encounter with 180 pound dogs—and they had no idea what horses were.

Five days later, upon arrival home, Tommy exulted, “I peed on 15 Rest Stops.  A RECORD!”

The 50 acre farm/ranch in Nebraska is horse heaven.  Large, lush alfalfa pastures, a cozy barn, and dogs that protect them from all harm.  Even the resident coyotes will not mess with a pack that adds up to about 800 lbs of dog—so the foals are safe.

Every beagle owner knows, the first rule of beagle is that they are not off-leash dogs.  When their nose gets on a scent, no amount of dog training, calling, whistling, or even treat offering, will turn them back.  You just have to hope they get tired and hungry before they get road hit.  However, the first couple of days on the farm, they stuck close to the Danes, and didn’t get out of sight of the house, so we decided they could do a bit of exploring.  The only nearby road was a gravel farm road.

A great gray cat sat quietly in the shade of a bush just outside the barn door.  These cats are basically feral, living among the stomping horse hooves, the Great Dane Consortium (well, not a “posse”, after all), and living off the mice, rats, and pigeons who come to try and feed on the horse grain.

Tommy ran up to the large gray tabby barking and dancing.  The tabby barely looked up.  Tommy stuck his head under the bush and demanded the cat run to be chased.  (Wise Tuppence saw the future and hung pretty far back.) We’re not positive what happened under the bush, but Tommy came out yelping and ran the full hundred yards back to the door of the house begging to be let inside and protected. He raced clear in to the couch and cowered in the corner. 

I sat with him checked that he needed no stitches, and said, “What did the Barn Cat say to you, Tommy?”

“D’n wanna play.”

“And what did you learn about farm cats?”

Very hangdog, he said, “Badass.”

Tuppence strolled by and observed, “Fool,” and kept on walking.

Even the Great Danes appeared to look at Tommy as some kind of short bus dog.

When the day of the eclipse came, we humans placed a semi-circle of lawn chairs out, and settled in as all dogs joined us.  We must have looked like a motley audience for a 1950s 3D movie—perhaps “Creature from the Black Lagoon”—as we all stared off into the breaking clouds, wearing our cardboard framed sun looking specs.

Like most natural processes, an eclipse is not a fast event.  Or, to put it in the terms of ancient man, the dragon does not eat the sun in one bite. So, as the first sliver of moon covered the sun, we oohed, ahhed, and applauded.  And drank wine, talked family gossip, and waited for more.  It would be a couple of hours before we discovered the possibilities the Posse saw in an astronomical event.

Even when the sun was half obscured, we didn’t sense much dimming of the light.  Such is the remarkable adaptability of the human eye.  However, at about ¾ obscured we noticed the sounds of twilight bugs in the trees, and noted evening bug-hunter birds, like the barn swallows, begin to fly about.  

At totality, the world did darken.  Not to full night black, mind you, but to something approaching the look of a cloudless full-moon night.  Not being superstitious fools, or some other kinds of science deniers, we, of course, knew the sun would be right back, so we didn’t declare the Rapture, scream about Gay lifestyles, or look around for sacrificial virgins or goats.

As light returned to the farmstead, we began to pick up plastic wine cups, lawn chairs, napkins and other astronomical necessities and prepare to move back to air conditioning.  We had been at the sky watching for a bit over an hour, and when last in the light had felt sure we were surrounded by all the animal contingent. We discovered we had only Great Danes in the canine census.  No Beagle Posse members in evidence.

When called, Tommy appeared, coming up the East draw, through the waist deep hay, from the tree grove down by the pond.  But, and this is most unusual, he was alone.  We all continued calling Tuppence.  We could see that Tommy was wet from the belly down, but we didn’t think much of it as it had rained earlier in the day, and the hay was wet.  Then, as if trying to sneak back, Tuppence came slinking around the other side of the farm house.

She looked awful, and sad.  She was covered in stinking pond water and mud.  Head to toe.  Her back fur was spiked up with scum so that it looked like a teen with gelled up hair.  Her muzzle was black with mud.  She shook like a series of internal earthquakes were wracking her body.

Deborah shouted, “What the Hell, Tuppence?  Where have you been?”  Tuppence just turned away.

Tommy muttered, “She chased a frog.”

“Frog cheated,” said Tuppence.

“Cheated?” I asked.

“Jumped over tall grass into water,” she said.

“And you jumped after it?”

Tommy pipes up again, “She tried to turn around in mid air.  Looked like a drunk gymnast.”

Ever practical at animal husbandry, Sister in Law grabbed the dog shampoo and the hose, and unscheduled dog baths ensued.  Tuppy obviously looked like she wouldn’t have chased amphibians if she knew bath would result.  Tommy kept muttering, “Why me?”

We hooked the Posse up to their leashes, and sat back down, waiting for them to sun dry.  Tommy moved himself to the other side of the lawn chair from the barn and its cats.

Six a.m. two mornings later we loaded up and headed south for Texas.  The Posse curled up for the ride in their back-seat doggie hammock.  Ten hours (and numerous rest stop stops) later, we crossed the Red River and entered Texas on I-35.  Interstate traffic warning signs began to tell us every 10 miles that there were Hurricane Watches from Brownsville to Beaumont, and that “Travel to Texas Coast Discouraged.”  This, of course, was the week Harvey was headed ashore.  I sure hope people heeded the warnings, but I doubt many did.

In dusk, we passed New Braunfels, just 30 some miles from home.  I looked back and saw that the beagles were awake, so I tried to start a conversation.  “What did you think of the eclipse?”

“Which one?” asked Tuppence.

“THE one,” I said.  “You know, where the sun got blocked out.”

Tommy said, “The frog pond dark, Tupp.”  Tuppence snarled.

Then Tuppence tried to explain to me.  “From where we stand, every time a Great Dane passed by, it blotted out the sun.  WE got lots of eclipses.”

Yes, I guess everything depends on perspective.  So I went another direction.  “How did you like the farm”?

Tommy said, “I rolled in horse poo.” I told him I’d noticed.

Tuppence said, “Frogs cheat.”

Tommy muttered, “Barn cats,” and turned to stare out the window.

Well, I told you before....

The Beagle Posse called a meeting.  

Tuppence began.  “We’re here to tell you that we did not do That.”

Worried, I asked, “Didn’t do what?”

“Oh,” said Tommy, “we did what, but we didn’t do That.”

Not wanting to get into an Abbot and Costello routine with dogs, I just said, “Explain."

Deep beagle sighs of weary exasperation.

“The Rock ‘n Roll That,” snorted Tuppence.  “We’ve been careful not to do it.”

“Driving around,” said Tommy, “you listen to all that satellite music.  And it talks about “That” all the time.  And we didn’t do it.”

I just raised an eyebrow.

“Like,” he continued, “those Beatle peoples.  They keep saying, 'I told you before, you can’t do that.'  And we haven’t.”

“Or,” said Tuppence, “That Meatloaf guy, great name by the way, keeps singing, 'I’ll do anything for love, but I won’t do THAT.'  We didn’t do it either.”

Tommy added, “The Rock ‘n Roll That.”

“Guys,” I said, “those are just silly pop songs, there’s really no 'that', it’s just a literary device.”

“Well,” huffed Tuppence, “you sing along with them, and WE. DID. NOT. DO. THAT.  We are innocent.”

I broke the reasoning circle, “Hey, I want to get back to the ‘what’ you said you did do.  Which what was it?”

“Did you find it on the floor?”

“No.”

“Then maybe we didn’t do it either.”

“Yeah,” said Tuppence with a slow awakening, “we hearby deny doing either that or what, and we certainly didn’t do both of them.”

“Well, maybe one,” mumbled Tommy.

I pounced.  “Which one?”

The Beagle Posse looked at me, at each other, and turned to leave the room.  “There’s a ‘which’ we can do?” asked Tommy.  “A which?  Let's go.”

“Yessssss,” said Tuppence.

I did a face palm.