The Mud Pit Revelation.

The beagle definition of “mud room” obviously was more like, “mud house.”

I stood just inside the front door and looked at the gumbo trail our living room and hallway had become. It was a drizzly winter day, not quite freezing, and the Posse had taken advantage of the recently installed dog door to make several trips to the yard, where they had taken advantage of the soggy ground to dig. They obviously have learned to use the door; not to wipe their feet.

(For the initial explanation of the dog door, see “The Cabra Portal”, Nov. 13.)

As I was noticing that the trail even led up onto the couch and love seat, which we DID cover with washable, dog resistant throws, in comes the entire Posse--trotting, grinning, and adding another coat of brown pigment to the broadloom. I stopped them before Tommy could jump up on me, noticing that their paws, all 8 of them, were caked, and that Tommy even had a coating of mud on one ear. (A state he never would explain. I asked, “Why is there mud on your ear?” and he replied, “I can't hear you, I have mud in my ear.”)

They saw my expression, with a “no treats for a week” curl to my lip, and immediately began to speak. “We were out in the back, looking through the fence for marauders, when the mud just rushed through the door and onto the floors. We're as surprised as you are.”

“No, the mud did not come in by itself. Who tracked in all this dirt?”

Tommy first, “We told you that if you put in that dog door, the Chupacabra would sneak in. Those look exactly like Goat Sucker tracks to me.” Then Tuppence, “My theory is rogue squirrels. We were out back checking on the raccoons, and while they distracted us, squirrels—a BUNCH of squirrels--snuck in and trashed the place. It's a well-known fact that raccoons and squirrels are in a satanic alliance against beagles.”

“Satanic alliance?”

“The Rodent Axis. It was on all the news channels.”

I sank onto the (muddy) love seat. “Look, that's four different stories in less than 30 seconds. You need to agree on the one you're going to try to sell me.”

Tuppence looked at me closely, “Which one did you find the most believable?”

“Huh?”

“It's like shopping for cars. We want to sell you the one you're most likely to buy.”

“The stories are all lemons,” I said.

Tommy threw in, “That never stopped you on the car lot.”

“Look,” I said, “You tracked in the mud. I just want you to tell me you'll be more careful.”

“That's beside the point,” said Tupp.

“You don't have a point.”

“Apparently, neither do you.”

“Yeah, well, my point is, you each get a bath.”

Tommy scratched at his muddy ear, tossing clods onto the front of the end table. “Also pointless.”

“How's that?”

Smugly, “We know where there's more mud than you know where there's dog shampoo.”

I slapped my knees and stood up. “Well, some of this is dry enough to vacuum up.”

“No, you can't” whined Tuppence “We made this a holy shrine.”

“Now that's a new one. Do tell.”

“Look at that paw print over there. See, it has the image of the Virgin in it. And over there, clearly the face of our Savior. See how the sand and the mud swirl together to reveal the blessed face?”

“Not seeing it. Not buying it.” I said.

“You didn't see the Blessed Mother in the tortilla either, did you?”

“Where did THAT come from?”

“And speaking of tortillas, we'll take two, with peanut butter—the peanut butter doesn't have to make an image.”

“NO!” I grabbed the Hoover and took a pass down about 5 feet of prints in the hall, leaving a clean path.

“Ayyyyeeeeeiiiiiiii!” And the Posse scrambled for the dog door, fighting to both get through at once.

“Are you still that scared of the vacuum cleaner?” I asked.

“No.” Tommy screamed. “The lightening.”

“There's no lightening going on.”

“It's coming,” yelled Tupp as they cowered in the back corner of the yard. “You just sucked up all the Stations of the Cross.”