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.”

Posse Chants

The Posse has been in the dumps lately. As Fall approaches, and the weather crisps up, the outdoor population of Rodentia, both the Munk and Sq varieties, have become even more active, obviously packing away winter provisions.

This depresses the Posse, they think an increase in opportunity should result in an increase in capture. As much as I explain that there's no more chance of catching two squirrels atop an 8 foot fence than there is of catching one squirrel atop the fence, they continue to mope. That kind of higher math exceeds the educational attainment of beagles.

It being a Saturday in Fall, I'm watching a couple of games of Barclay's Premier League Soccer from the UK; the Posse in their usual position on my lap. (They don't really care a whit about soccer, but they are mightily interested in my soccer watching snacks. They focus on popcorn like a Fox reporter on a Palin quote.)

The broadcast for some reason turns up the crowd mike for a bit, and the roaring, rhythmic soccer chant catches the attention of the entire Posse. Their eyes snap to the screen. Then snap back to me.

They jump off my lap and race out the back door to hold a high-level conference and peeathon in the back yard. When they come back in, Tuppence takes the “listen up” position in front of my chair.

“Write us a chant,” she yipped.

“A chant?”

“You're the word and typing guy, get to work.”

“And why would I write a chant for you?”

Beagle sigh. “Because we need encouragement to help catch the evil red Bush Tails. While you're at it, write two; one for offense, one for defense.”

“Defense?”

“None of your business.”

I changed tack, “And who will sing these chants?”

“Our fans.” A smug beagle is really unattractive.

“Fans?” You mean me?

“And here we thought you were dumb. Tommy said you couldn't win a spelling bee if all the other contestants were Tea Party members.” A sarcastic beagle is even more unattractive.

It's easier for me to write than to argue or reason with beagles, so I went to work. After all, soccer chants are just simple repetition set to familiar tunes.

So, first I did the obvious:

Oh, when the dogs,

Go barkin' in.
Oh when the dogs

Go barkin' in.
Oh, oh, I want to be in that number,
When the dogs go barkin' in.

Then a bit of a stretch:

Glory, glory Squirrels and Chipmunks,
Glory, glory Squirrels and Chipmunks.
Glory, glory, Squirrels and Chipmunks,
We'll chomp on you some day.

I woke the Posse from its nap, and read the offerings to them.

They did a slow take to each other, then just turned and walked from the room. I've seen that response from clients before. It usually comes just before they ask for a new Creative Team on their account.

Later, I heard a huge chorus of barking under the squirrel tree in the back corner of the yard.

I stepped out and commanded, “Quiet! Hush up, dogs! Get in here.”

Tommy looks over his shoulder and says, “We're chanting to the squirrels,” and went back to it.

I said, “Sounds like the usual mindless barking.”

Tuppence said, “Just like you wrote.”

I'm remembering why I don't write for clients any more.

Charlie Called Tails.

We'd put in a long, hard day of Winnin' the Hearts and Minds at Long Binh, and now, at dusk, we were lounging around the phone cable spool tables in the Outdoor Cafe section of the NCO Club. We were adjusting our own hearts and minds with cans of Blatz 3.2 beer, at 15c a can.

One of the troops at the table was a guy from Barre, Vermont. A real New Englander, with a Down East drawl, who only said anything about once every two weeks. When he spoke, it was worth listening to. A Newbie once asked him, “Vermont, huh? Lived there all your life?” After a pause our Green Mountain boy drawled out, “Nope. Not yet.”

Before you conclude that were were warring in luxury, let me describe a couple of things. The “club” was a tin roofed pavilion with rusty screen wire walls and a concrete floor. The outdoor section where we sat was across a path from a rank of 55 gallon drums, buried on end to the rim, filled with gravel, and covered with wire mesh, for the purpose of returning used beer to mother earth.

The club did have some slot machines. Which turned out later that year to be totally crooked, and part of the scam of a gang of “senior NCOs”, who went to jail for stealing from the club and the troops.

That Blatz beer was supplied by someone who had obviously paid a lot of money for some Congressman's campaign. It was the only brand we got, and in those days before aluminum pop tops, the tin and steel cans had set in pallets on the Saigon docks for many days in the 105 degree heat. The can tops were rusty. You can only imagine what this jungle pasteurizing did for the brew inside.

Weekend nights, the club would present bands. These were Filipino, Viet, and Korean “cover” bands playing US rock hits—badly and with such bad accents you could never pick out a recognizable lyric. The bands traveled in beat up VW vans with the tiny, crappy amplifiers they used. They always featured two things. One, scantily clad dancer girls—or some were even girl bands—and, two, every band ended every show with what was the GI anthem for Vietnam—The Animals', “We Gotta Get Outa This Place.” Even if they sounded as bad as Roseanne singing the National Anthem, that one brought the house down. Always. The bands were bad. But as the evening wore on, and the beer goggles and beer 'phones began to kick in, they got to looking and sounding better.

We did have it better than the troops in the smaller camps, the fire bases and such. But “better” doesn't always mean “good.”

As we sipped our sundowners, some 100 yards up a jeep was parked at the side of the dirt road in front of a latrine. The jeep was in “tactical configuration.” That meant there was no top, and the windshield was folded flat down on the hood. It looked like an Olive Drab slab on wheels.

Just as the sun got down enough we could barely see the jeep, Charlie, as part of his adrenaline replenishment program, sent us an evening rocket.

This evening's offering happened to come in just right, and hit directly under the gas tank of that jeep. Between the warhead and the gas, there was enough of a bang and whoosh to send the jeep flipping up into the air.

As the rest of us were diving for the ground, the Pride of Vermont calmly takes his beer down from his lips, looks at the tumbling jeep, and says, “Heads.”

The Receptionist's Novel

Mad Men may be fun, but not nearly the fun the real thing was.

At a major Houston agency back about 1980. The offices were in a slick, modern building in the Galleria area, it was 19 stories of glass and stainless steel. The 14^th floor agency offices were just as modern, wanting to project an aura of slick expertise.

The elevator opened right into our reception lobby. Our receptionist, Lily, was evidently chosen for impression rather than efficiency. Though she was fine at the few things she was asked to do. She was a 21 year old out of small town Louisiana, with an accent thicker than gumbo. Her “FIE-nance”, whose wonders and virtues she bragged about to every other secretary/clerical in the shop, was named Finn—pronounced FEEE-un. She would be best described as a small town Cajun high school cheerleader.

There was an IBM Selectric at the reception desk, (the days before computers) but she was extremely deficient in spelling and typing. So, she was never assigned even overflow typing. That didn't mean she didn't type. She was constantly pounding on the keys. When asked what she was working on, she'd say, “Mah noVEL.” But she slipped the pages right into a hidden manila folder, and never let anyone see a word.

Management didn't mind. Phones got answered. Messages got taken. Guests got greeted. And Lily was always happy and smiling, and always looked great. Still, there was a lot of curiosity about this novel.

One day, a young hard-charging brand manager from Gulf Oil came in for a meeting. Clients were mostly conservative corporate types. While waiting at the front, he happened to pick up a couple of pages she had left on the desk. Something she never did. Mouth agape, he was reading them when the Account Executive he was meeting came out. He just shoved the pages at the AE with a strained, “look.”

There beneath layers of fractured grammar, and truly original spelling techniques, were two pages of a highly descriptive, highly colorful, and extremely athletic sounding porn novel.

The AE rushed the client to the conference room, and started the business at hand, afraid to even mention the now crumpled pages he had stuffed in his coat pocket. He sweated through the meeting. Neither man mentioning the pages.

The meeting ended just before lunch, so the AE and client rode down together on the elevator. The client was quiet until they got to the bottom. As the door opened, he asked, “Is she seeing anyone?”

The AE stammered out something about “engaged”, and went to get a bowl of Scotch for lunch.

Lily was asked not to work on her novel anymore. All she said was, “'K. Can I have my pages back?”

Then, only about three weeks later, as another AE was getting off the elevator with a banker client, they ran into Lily on the phone to her Mama in Louisiana, explaining that she had broken off with Finn.

Lot's of tears. And it sounded like Mama was trying to sell Finn to daughter.

“Mama.....Mama......No, Mama, I won't. No. Not ever. Mama.......Mama.......Mama..........because, Mama, Fee-un's a PRICK.” And slams the phone down.

Word flew through the office like news of a new client.

The Gulf AE, always the suck up—after all, that's what they're paid for—immediately called the young Gulf exec to tell him Lily was on the market.

Other crises, other days, other ads. Time went on.

A while later, waiting with his client for a downtown shuttle, the Gulf AE asked the client, “Say, did you ever go out with Lily?”

A terse, “Once.”

“Only once?”

“I'd never have survived a second date.”

For 30 years, I've wished I knew more.

Posse HR policies.

As soon as the Beagle Posse went out for its first morning recon, it was obvious, SOMETHING had been in the yard last night.

They began scurried about, each on his or her own scent trail--noses to the ground, the inscribed patterns more complex than Tibetan Prayer Labyrinths. Crossing and recrossing in looping patterns they snuffled every inch for traces of the Werebunny, or Wussel, or Blackbeard's Ghost, or whatever had been there. Ticked off that they had missed the chance to bark frantically at something in the night, beagle diligence required that it be identified, and if possible, brought to ground—or tree.

After a while of them looping, circling, backtracking, and fence following, I made the mistake of speaking up. “Missed that one, huh, guys?” I laughed.

Big mistake. The Posse looked up, rushed in past me in full snarling tumble as they worked out their response to the insult. The committee meeting went on for several laps up and down the hall. Beagles do not abide slurs on their hunting prowess.

I sat down for some coffee, and Tuppence plopped in front, giving me her most serious expression. Of course, beagles have a limited expression vocabulary. There's Serious; there's FedEX man ferocious frenzy; there's Treat expectation joy; and there's Tummy scratch bliss. That's about it.

“Hey, Girl, what's up?”

She yipped to make sure she had my attention, then told me they had decided it was past time for my Annual Review.

“My what?”

“Review. Every good company does them.”

I said, “OK, but what do you know about American corporate practice?”

She came close to showing me the FedEx man teeth, and then asked, “What's a beagle's strongest sense?”

“Smell?”

“Right, and do you think that we don't know all about something that stinks as much as Human Resources policies?”

I accepted defeat in that realm and tried another tack. “OK, but you're not corporate management. You're not even MBAs.”

Tuppence looked at me like I was three trips to the vet and a bath all wrapped up in a package. But it was Tommy who answered, “People call us MBA all of the time.”

“How's that?”

“Mindlessly Barking Arses.”

“Look,” I said, “that's not what MBA stands for. It stands for..........You know what? You may have a point.”

Tuppence pushes back in. “Let's get this done. Squirrels to chase; naps to take. In some order.

“We've decided that your rating is: You're doing the best that can possibly be done with the tools we give you, and you'll have to do a whole lot better in the future.”

I said, “That's about the essence of every review I ever got. OK.”

“And no raise this year.”

“I'm retired.”

“That's another discussion.”

I think the posse was about to say something else, but they'd been paying attention to one thing for nearly 30 seconds, and a chipmunk ran by on the patio. They ran over me like a Green Bay running back through the Colt's defense and went to their rodent duties.

I am pleased to learn that it was modern HR practices that I smelled on the bottom of my shoe. I thought it was something else entirely.

The Uninvited Guest

A quiet night in the perimeter bunkers at Long Binh, Vietnam. Headly had wandered out 50 feet down the blast wall to practice his Tennessee boy heritage of peeing on the barb wire. Easy to do, as the wall was only a couple of feet high at that point, and the wire just on the other side.

He was sort of humming a Buck Owens tune, gazing at the stars, and blissfully finding relief. Then he looked down three feet to his right, and came face to face with the Viet Cong. Well, not exactly face to face, Charlie was on his hands and knees crawling through the concertina wire. But there he was, resplendent in his black pajamas, and obviously filled with evil intent.

Headly had no weapon with him, thinking that one was not needed for the mission at hand. So his only choice was to take off running for the bunker, trying to return “the general” to his fly, and screaming, “Sappers, Goldamn Sappers....Oh, God, help.”

Sappers were specialized VC whose skill was breaking through the perimeter of US camps, usually secretly. These uninvited guests then generally acted very rudely, delivering gift packages of high explosives tossed into the backs of bunkers, or onboard parked helicopters, or into hooches filled with sleeping men.

Headly's cries set in motion a series of planned, if not well-choreographed, actions. As he tumbled back into the bunker, others were coming out with a couple of flares in hand, while someone else was cranking the field phone to alert the Officer of the Day, and to request illumination flares from II Field Force Artillery. The fourth man grabs the rudimentary Starscope from the bunker and begins scanning the wire. The bunker now redolent with adrenaline and testosterone.

The man with the flares pops the first one, a red star shell that indicates an attack at the wire. Then the second which is a smaller version of the magnesium flares the arty would soon be sending. Brightly burning magnesium drifted back to earth under a parachute, casting white light on all below.

In quick order, the Starscope and then the flare confirmed Headly's report. Out there in the wire was the black pj enemy crawling into the camp. “Where's his team?! Find his team!” But it seemed the rising alarms had sent the rest of his crew scurrying back into the rice paddies.

The artillery flares arrived with two loud bangs a couple of hundred feet up, and turned the whole scene into stark daylight. Then four M-16s spoke to the sapper. Then everyone hunkered down to wait and watch.

As the flares died out, the reinforcement reaction force comes roaring up, and the captain waves a sergeant with a strong flashlight toward the point of the infiltration. People still shouting, “His team's still out there. Keep low.”

Dropping to the ground at the blast wall, then carefully peering over with his light, the sergeant examined the attacker, then waved the officer forward.

The sarge, and the captain, and a whole bunch of other people, were really pissed off to discover a very shot up black pot-bellied pig.

Bonus: Cilantro Yogurt Potato Salad

Weekend bonus recipe. Cilantro Yogurt Potato Salad.

The quantities and measurements here are to give you ratios. This basic recipe will make 2 to 4 servings, depending on the size of the potatoes. And depending on how much you like it.

2 Russet or similar potatoes.  I do not recommend red for this, too gummy.
1/2 purple onion.
1/2 cup mayonnaise.
1/4 cup plain Greek Yogurt.  (I like the Greek for it's consistency, and it's extra punch. Use regular if you like, but you'll need to cut back a bit on the amount so your dressing is not too runny.)
1/2 cup loosely packed cilantro leaves.
Salt.

Quarter the potatoes and boil until a fork enters them easily. About 10-12 min. Do not overcook.  Drain potato and let cool. Meanwhile, chop onion in a medium fine chop, and coarsely chop the cilantro. Also, it will help in the mixing if you premix the mayo and yogurt.

When the potato is cool, dice into 1/4 inch cubes.

Toss all ingredients into a good size mixing bowl and stir with spatula or wooden spoon to thoroughly mix. (Don't use a metal spoon.  The edge will cut in to the potato and mush it up too much.)  Salt to taste. Chill before serving.

Using these ratios, you can make as much or as little as you like. Also, if you like your salad dryer or moister, you may adjust the amount of mayo and yogurt as you go.

The first time I served this to my wife after I developed it, she said, "I don't want to ever eat potatoes any other way."  Hope you like it.

Beagle Zen

Tuppence on the Beagle Zen of Schrodinger's Cat:

"It's a cat.
It's sealed in a box.
Leave it be."

Thursday Phone Phollies

The phone rings.  Caller ID says, "unknown name and number."

Being sick abed, I pick it up.  The usual "blah, blah, to speak to one of our representatives, press 1."

Press 1.

Voice comes on and says, "Who am I speaking to?"

I say, "Thank God you're there.  We'll get to that.  But I have an emergency, I'm ill and I need your help.  Just do this, and I'll listen to any pitch you have."

"Ummmm, 'k."

"Do you have another line or another phone there?  A cell maybe?"

"Yes."

"Good.  Just for a moment, put this line down and pick that one up.  Dial 911 and say this exactly,  'Officer, I'm attempting to defraud a senior citizen here.  You might want to come on over and see how we operate.'  Did you get that?  Say it exactly.  Repeat it back to me.

"Hello.  Hello."

Humrph.  You just can't count on the kindness of strangers any more.

Now that the Beagle Posse appears to be sneaking in and studying the internet at night, there may be trouble brewing.  No telling what information they'll find.

Tommy just came in and said,  "Let me see if I get this Evolution thing.  Basically, I'm a wolf living with a monkey, and the monkey's in charge?"

The Posse and the ESP Trials.

For a while now, Tuppence has been staring at me in ways that make me check my Carotid Artery. You can never be sure what a born carnivore is thinking.

She's been coming in to where I am, sitting down in front of me, and staring in a most intense manner. When I look at her and ask, “Hey, Girl, what do you need?” She cocks her head and pushes her nose a bit closer to me. When I still say, “What is it, Girl?” She gives her head an ear-slapping shake and walks disgustedly away.

It's more than a bit disconcerting.

Finally, I found her relaxed in a Sun Spot, and got her to tell me what's up.

It seems the Beagle Posse has been diligently practicing its Mental Telepathy on me. Beaglepathy.

I told her that was silly. Beagles can't Mind Control humans. Her snort kicked up a small dust devil on the carpet. (Remind me to vacuum.) She gave me her best canine “what do you know “ look, so I went on to explain that people have experimented with telepathic messages for many years, and it has never been scientifically shown that humans can do that.

She just rolled over as she said, “Of course not. You can't play a Concerto without a piano, Chump.”

I said, “Huh?”

She got her, “you proved my point” look. Generally beagles pass gas when they get that look. Of course, generally, beagles pass gas.

Finally, she turns around, stretches, shakes her butt, and begins to explain.

“What happens at 6 am and 5 pm every day?”

“We feed you two.”

“Uh, huh. And what happens at 11 every day?”

“You get dog biscuits for Elevenses.”

“Right. And what happens when our water bowl is empty?”

“I fill it.”

“There. You don't think those are YOUR ideas do you?” And more gas passes. There is nothing more irritating than a smug beagle breaking wind.

I reply, “You think you cause me to do stuff to take care of you?”

“Yep, otherwise you'd forget.”

She scratches behind her left ear and says, “And we keep all the solicitors, pollsters, and riff raff from ringing the door bell. We do it with Beaglepathy.”

I jump on it. “Aha! I got you there. I put up the “No Soliciting” sign on the front door.”

Beagle snort. “Sure, that stops the easy ones. The ones who can read. We keep away the illiterate solicitors. That's the hard job.”

I notice that during all of this, Tommy has not entered the conversation. He's been sitting over in the corner with that Hard Beagle Stare look.

I said to Tuppy. “Look. I'm the human. I'm the one with the power of reasoning and the opposable thumbs around here. And I tell you there is no such thing as telepathy. Your examples are nonsense. Pure coincidence. They prove nothing.”

It is, I guess, a bit dumb to be claiming superior intellect while arguing with beagles.

Tuppence apparently has the same thought. She wanders through the dog door and begins chipmunk patrol around the patio.

I need to post this and go. My head is throbbing, and it feels like something inside is screaming “TREAT!! TREAT!! TREAT!!”

Darwin Stands Guard Duty

Reader's note: For background information and a description of the Double-Quad Deuce, and their perimeter bunker at Long Binh, Vietnam, scroll back and read the entry “I Hope They Don't Have Grenades” from September 4^th.

At nearly every cross roads in Vietnam, a small market area appeared. Vendors sold vegetables, live chickens, gee gaws, stolen black market items and such. At almost every one of these there'd be a kid selling a monkey or two. Little brown simians about 10 to 12 inches tall, which the boys SWORE would make the perfect pet for an American GI.

Of course it was against a stack of regulations to buy one of these. Not only was a soldier not supposed to have pets (communal platoon dogs notwithstanding), but these little buggers carried all kinds of diseases, and they were vicious biters.

So, of course, GIs bought monkeys.

One of the troopers on guard duty for the Deuce on the night in question had a monkey. Who knows if he'd bought it. They were such a filthy pain in the ass that they tended to pass from hand to hand. Given this monkey's name, I doubt he was first bought by one of the mechanics and drivers in the Car Company. The monkey's name was Darwin.

Evidently no one back at the Hooch would take care of Darwin. He got brought along on guard duty.

As the sun went down, from the neighboring bunker, 50 meters away, we could hear Darwin chattering, and the four soldiers in the bunker laughing and hooting at his antics.

What follows is a combination of what witnesses in other bunkers saw and heard, and a reconstruction of events after the fact.

It would seem the M-16 of one of the Deuce troopers had placed itself in a very dangerous configuration—certainly no soldier ever later admitted that he had left the rifle like it was, so it must have loaded a round into its own chamber, placed its own selector switch on Full Auto, clicked its safety off, and leaned itself into a corner to rest. Because for a soldier to have done any one of those things with the rifle in a bunker not under attack would have been a serious violation.

About two hours after dark, in Darwin's guard rounds about the bunker, he must have felt the need to climb up and look out a firing port. The best way to do that was to climb up that rifle leaning in the corner. And, as he climbed, the trigger formed a perfect step for one of his hind feet.

The 16 immediately began to empty it's 20 round clip. The recoil, and the actions of the frightened monkey still clinging to the rifle caused it to fall in a perfect Euclidean arc, distributing high-velocity full metal jacket rounds throughout the bunker.

The muzzle flashes lit up the inside of the bunker as the four soldiers inside began to prove that a full-grown man in helmet and flak jacket could dive through a firing port which had only a 12 inch high opening. Unfortunately for at least one of them, he chose the port directly to the front, which meant he jumped right onto the stack of rusted concertina barb wire.

Tom Soar, in our bunker, said that the shouting was loud enough to be heard over the sound of the ripping rounds. He observed it sounded like a thousand Alabama auctioneers trying to sell an Ohshitsonofabitch. Other witnesses also said that it seemed like the firing went on for so long, it is possible the monkey grabbed a magazine and reloaded.

By the time everything settled down, Darwin was gone, apparently  defecting to the Viet Cong. Some thought he may have been VC all along.

Others maintained that he had high-tailed it back to the Officer's Club, claiming that from some angles he looked exactly like an ROTC Lieutenant.

Weekend bonus--Warm Baby Bok Choy Salad

Warm Baby Bok Choy Salad


2-3 Heads Baby Bok Choy
Balsamic vinegar (or rice vinegar)
Soy Sauce
Brown sugar
Sriracha sauce
Olive oil

Wash Bok Choy and trim off root ends.  Starting from leaf end, slice crossways in about 1" chunks.  Heat a couple of Table Spoons of olive oil in skillet, saute pan, or wok.  When hot, toss in the Bok Choy and quickly saute.  Stir often. 

Just as leaves begin to wilt,  add 2 teaspoons of vinegar, 3  teaspoons of Soy Sauce, a Table Spoon of Brown sugar  (If using rice vinegar, add another half TBS of sugar.)  Then add about an eighth teaspoon of Sriracha.  (All of these amounts, especially the Sriracha, can be adjusted to your taste.  If you don't have Sriracha, any hot sauce will work.)

Stir quickly to thoroughly coat the vegetable with the sauce ingredients.  Remove from pan.

Serve warm to room temperature.

Serves 2 to 4 people, depending on size of serving desired.

The Posse Skypes

It seemed like an interesting idea to let the Beagle Posse try Skyping with their cousin Watson, who lives with our daughter in Houston.

It sort of worked. Both the Posse and Watson climbed onto their human's laps and took a brief look at the screen. But the Beagles soon moved back to their squirrel watch duties.

Tuppence patiently explained to me that this Skype thing would be an incomplete and unsatisfactory form of communication until someone invented a butt sniffing ap for it. How else is a dog to know that's really a dog worth talking to on there?

I told Tuppy, butt sniffing was not a common form of human greeting or communication. In fact, it was frowned on in most cultures.

Tupp said that this was nothing to be proud of, and in fact the absence of sufficient butt sniffing may explain the number of failed human marriages.

I begin to think their disinterest in the technology is a ruse. I've been finding signs that make me think my computer has been used in the night--small things like keys sticking because of what looks very much like dried dog drool, and a dog hair obscured screen. The Posse denies knowledge or involvement, and suggests the Microsoft Gnomes must have paid a visit or two.

Still, someone's going to have to explain the 40 lb. bag of freeze dried Liver Treats that UPS just delivered. And the Posse thinks I didn't notice that this was the first UPS man in history who was not greeted at our door as an evil apparition requiring exorcism by a frantic barking chorus.

I hope they don't have grenades.

The Black guys sang acapella DooWop as we drove to the war: “I wonder, wonder, wonder, wonder, bop, who wrote the Book of Love.”

“Driving to the war” is what we called the ride in the back of the truck out to be dropped off at the perimeter bunkers for a night of guard duty.

In 1970, the perimeter around the US base at Long Binh, Vietnam was a huge circle of concertina wire, tangle foot wire, and claymore mines. All backed up by a three-foot high sandbag wall with firing positions cut in, with a mini fort of a manned bunker every 50 meters.
.
The sandbagged bunkers were squalor in a pit. Eight feet on a side, dug waist deep into the ground, then built up with wood and sandbags to about 5 feet above that, lined with railroad ties, a floor of wooden shipping pallets; with a machine gun, claymore triggers, a field phone, flares—signal and magnesium illumination, and an artillery map. Each bunker was the nightly responsibility of one of the companies on the base. Every company provided four men a night to man their bunker. And every man on duty brought his rifle.

The bunker to our left was the 442d Car Company. The “Double-Quad, Deuce.” The drivers and mechanics for the Colonels' and Generals' cars. Chauffeurs in Olive Drab.

In the army, even a pit like a bunker has rules. One biggie was, NO FOOD IN THE BUNKER. Food scraps brought rats. Rats brought snakes. Every Viet snake was more deadly than a Second Lieutenant with a map.

The troops in the Deuce were bad at following rules. Charlie had no gas, so they ditched their gas masks, and hid food in the mask bags.

Late one night, the field phone jangled. These were on one long line. Everyone listened in.

“Officer of the Day! Officer of the Day! This is Deuce. There's a SNAKE!

(Sleepy Lieutenant) “Huh? In your bunker?”

“No, Sir, but he's alookin' in.”

“Leave him alone.”

“Yessir.”

Ten minutes later. Phone.

“Sir, Sir, he's comin' closer.”

“Leave the snake alone.”

Five minutes later.

RING! RING! RING! RING! RING!

“He's come IN.”

“Just kill the damn snake.”

BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM, the 442 bunker lit up like D-Day meets General Custer. Through the firing ports it looked like the NY Fourth of July fireworks were all trapped inside the 8 foot cube.

Hale, in our bunker, jumps up, “Shit, they unmounted the 60.” They had pulled the belt-fed machine gun from its mount in the firing port, and were loosing 30 cal. rounds on the snake at a cyclic rate of 600 rounds a minute. Every 5^th round a burning phosphorus tracer. Inside a small room lined with wood.

Then the other 3 guys opened up with their M-16s. And it got louder and brighter.

After 30 seconds of World War, the firing stopped, and silence descended. In the silence, Hale says, “Damn. The ricochets.” That's what we were all wondering about.

Then 10 seconds later, it ALL started again. And we voted to drop to the bottom of our bunker.

Another guy in our bunker says, “I hope they don't have grenades.”

When the firing stopped, the phone was frantic one more time. The Lt. calling now.

“Did you kill that damn snake?”

“No, Sir. But he done left.”

“You burned hundreds of rounds, and you missed the snake?”

“Maybe...........Sir.”

“The snake isn't dead?”

“No, Sir. …. But he left.”

“What the......Are any of YOU hurt?”

(Small voice) “A little.”

I swear we heard laughter from the rice paddies.

A Poodle with a Mohawk

The Beagle Posse was spending Labor Day mostly watching the passing parade on the Front Window channel of Beagle TV.  Lots of dogs out walking their humans passed by, and the Posse had some kind of comment on the appearance, parentage, or lack of dogly virtues of each quadestrian.

Then a Standard Poodle, a beautiful black specimen, strolled haughtily by.  It was trimmed in a Mohawk from head to rump.  Tommy was dumbstruck.

He immediately demanded that HE must have a Mohawk.  He said it was exactly the do that would give him "Patio Cred" in his function as chipmunk/squirrel wrangler. 

I explained that the short hair of a beagle coat simply would not lend itself to such a radical clip.  In fact not to any clip.  I told him the only option would be to shave off nearly all of his hair, and leave a strip.  He thought, then opined that he needed all of his hair for his furniture shedding duties.

Tuppence then said that perhaps an eyebrow ring or two, or a lip piercing, would give sufficient cred.  I reminded her that a piercing would require a trip to the vet. She quickly changed the subject.  Not even Patio Cred is worth a trip to the evil environs of the veterinarian.

For Labor Day, a biblical call for a living wage:

“The field of the poor may yield much food, but it is swept away through injustice....Oppressing the poor in order to enrich oneself, and giving to the rich, will lead only to loss” (Proverbs 13:23; 22:16).

“Come now, you rich people.... Listen! The wages of the laborers who mowed your fields, which you kept back by fraud, cry out, and the cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord of hosts. You have lived on the earth in luxury and in pleasure; you have fattened your hearts in a day of slaughter” (James 5:1-5).