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.