Oh You Kibble Pickers

Free Range chickens show up at the bird feeders.

Someone made the mistake of leaving a magazine where the Beagle Posse could read it. It was evidently open to pages about “More natural diets.”  Stuff like the “Raw Food Movement,” “Probiotics,” “Paleo Diet.”  (You might follow one of those, so I won’t delve into that.  Just the beagle take away.)

Tuppence pushed my laptop closed and said, “We need to talk to you about the ingredientianal compositional paradigm of our daily caloric intake.”

“Ingredientianal?” I asked.

“Yes, the ecologialistically ultimated sourceing and processatory functions employed in getting our nourishment to supper bowl.”

I realized we had traveled to the very borders of jargon and magazine-diet-fad-speak land. “First of all, a magazine is a horrible place to get advice on your food.   They’ve pushed everything from Grapefruit Diets to Bone Broth and dinosaur livers as the perfect meal plan.  Second, even if a jargon spouting Community College journalism dropout WAS a good source for food information, the magazine is talking about human diets, not dog meals.”

Tommy began to steam a little. “You mean you don’t eat what you feed us?”

“Tommy, you know we don’t.  You beg for bites of mine every time I have a meal or snack.”

“But not the chicken bones.”

“No, I won’t give you chicken bones.  But what’s this all about, don’t you like the kibbles we feed you?”

“Oh, we like ‘em.  Can we have some now?”

“I thought you wanted to talk about ingredientianal composition.”

“Beagle rule 1,” said Tuppence, “Ask for food every chance you get.”

“And I know,” I said, “you follow that rule to the letter.”

“Not to the letter, to the supper bowl. Now, it says on the bag that there’s chicken and lamb in our food.”

“Yes.”

“What part of the chicken does a kibble come from?” asked Tommy.

“And why are chicken kibbles and lamb kibbles the same size?” said Tuppence.

“Hmmmm,” I said, “I can see a lot of beagle thought has been going on.  Well, on your average hen, the kibble is located just behind the nugget. I think you’d have to ask a Scotsman or a New Zealander about where sheep kibbles are.”

Tommy was still pressing. “The food writer said we should know where all of our food comes from, and how it’s handled.  What steps do you take to serve us fresh kibbles?”


“First, Tommy, I don’t think ‘fresh’ and ‘kibble’ work together. As to handling your food, I scoop it out of the bag and into your bowls with a measuring cup, add the very freshest tap water from the kitchen sink, then try to set it on the floor before you knock it out of my hand.”

Tuppence had a definite look of suspicion on her brow.  “OK, chicken and lamb kibbles you’ve explained, but there’s lots of other stuff.  Where do those other kibbles all come from.”

I ran a quick calculation of beagle brains and beagle attention span and said, “That’s easy.  Kibble trees.  All the rest of them grow on kibble trees. Most are grown in kibble orchards these days, and picked by migrant kibble crews, though there are a few brave adventurers who travel into the mountains in search of wild kibbles.”

“Ummm, yes, yes,” said both dogs.

“And,” I said, “If we  build a border wall, and keep out a bunch of agricultural workers, there might not be enough kibble pickers and packers.  You can see what a problem that would be.  Kibbles just sadly falling from the untended trees, and rotting on the ground.”

Worried looks on both dogs. I knew I’d dodge another round robin discussion.

“Oh, yes, yes,” they mused as they turned to go nap and ponder.  “Big problem.  Really Bigly. Sad.”

The honest crooked major.

(This Vietnam tale may not be as outright funny as some of the others. It probably won’t be the very last VN story I post, but probably will be the final chapter when I gather them all into a book. With the current Burns broadcasts on PBS, this seems like a good time to talk about a certain Major.)

It was nearing the end of Major Shoat’s tour, and he was morose.  First, because there would be an audit of the supplies in the warehouse when he left, and he wasn’t sure he’d really done enough to fudge all the records.  You can only cover up so much with the stamp, “Combat Loss.”  Second, it was obvious that he was enough of a piker he was not going to get that promotion to Lt. Col. before he left Vietnam, and that meant he would probably never get it, so his military career and his “secondary” source of income were both coming to a close.

It doesn’t really matter that this major wasn’t a very good officer.  I wasn’t in his chain of command, and therefore his lacks were of no real threat to me.  We met this ROTC Wonder because of our Company Scrounger, Mike Pilchuck.  (If you don’t recall the story about Sp. Pilchuck, see Turning Tent Pegs Into Lobster Tails)It was 1970, post Tet, and even the career officers knew the war was finished, and that we were only still stuck there fighting because the politicians didn’t mind spending a few more of our lives while they tried to figure out a way to pull out of S. E. Asia and still get re-elected.

Pilchuck was a scrounger, Maj. Shoat was a crooked supply officer, so, of course, there was shared utility.  Also, Pilchuck ran a Thursday night “game night” in our hooch—the games consisting of poker and craps-- and the major was a compulsive gambler. The Army has strict non-fraternization rules for Enlisted Men and Officers, but the major wasn’t about to turn himself in, and we welcomed the presence of a bad poker player with officer-level money into the game.  He made regular unintentional contributions to our beer fund. This is not just a guy who would draw to an inside straight, this was a guy who would bet a pocket 3-5.  We all thought of him as an old man.  He was probably 34.  He wasn’t really stupid.  Just driven by private demons, and blind in some areas.  What brains he had kept him from being booted out of the Army.

Our base was on the northern edge of the Mekong Delta, only about 14 miles from Saigon, down a highway that was passable during daylight hours. (A Newbie once ask our platoon sergeant how much territory the VC controlled around our post.  Sarge said, “During the day, just about all of it.  At night, all of it.”)  There were enough APCs, armed jeeps, escorted truck convoys and such on the highway in the day that you could get to and from Saigon ok if you never slowed down or left the pavement.  Heaven help you if you had a break down. Being Supply (S-4) the major had a jeep, and he had a weakness for the cheap drinks and cheap “companionship” found in the B-Girl bars and “Turkish Baths” up and down Saigon’s famous Tu Do Street. Hiding out from work was called “Ghosting,” and Major Shoat was also a major ghost.  He managed to spend more time in the Tu Do clubs than at his job.  Of course, his work got done.  The sergeants did it whether he was on base or not.

By now, the major wasn’t doing much in the clubs other than power drinking. Spending the afternoon at the end of the bar, waving the girls away and knocking back watered down black market booze. The vision of drunken jeep races and Moped tag with the Viet civilians weaving in and out on the two lane back up the highway as he rushed to get back on base before sundown is not pleasant.  Sundown held both the danger of the VC, and much more intense questioning by the MPs manning the post gate.

There were always Vietnamese boys hanging around these bars.  They shined boots, ran errands, dealt small amounts of pot and heroin, touted girls, and generally scrambled to get a few Piasters a day.  They also listened, because, of course, most were at least part time spies for the VC.  These kids looked 10 or 12, but could have been any age up to 17 or so.  For $1 MPC (Military Payment Certificate-the funny money GIs were paid during the war to try to keep real green backs out of the hands of the communists) one of these boys would sell you a perfectly sealed pack of Park Lane cigarettes.  Cellophane, tax stamp, foil, and all.  Inside, would be 20 perfectly packed filter-tipped joints of Uncle Ho’s finest herb.

This afternoon a persistent “boy san” was bugging Shoat.  Either he hadn’t made much that day, or saw the drunk officer as an easy mark.  He pushed dope, he pushed drinks, he touted the various contortions and hand/mouth skills of the girls in the booths.  The major was having none of it.  He pushed the boy away and said, “Di Di Mao,” get away, you VC.”

The kid jumped back and protested, “No. No. Sao.  No VC.”

“Yeah, you VC.”

“No, GI. No VC. Hate VC. No VC.”

The major then looked through bleary eyes and said, “Well, kid, if you ain’t VC, you better hurry and join up, ‘cause I think Charlie’s got this one in the bag.”