Beagles Wearing Green

Tommy and Tuppence came trotting through the room wearing green kerchiefs.

“Now, just where,” I asked, “did you get those? And how did you tie them on without thumbs?”

“We're friends with the Leprechauns,” explained Tommy.

“OK,” I said, “but beagles are English, not Irish, and the Irish hate the English.”

With her usual long-suffering sigh, Tuppence explained. “Beagles, at least the Beagle Posse, are Irish. And I can prove it.”

“Prove away.”

“One, just like St. Patrick, we're good at chasing varmints out of the yard.
Two, like any true Irishman, we have absolutely no control over our appetites.
Three, just like the Irish, everybody loves us, and wants to be us on St. Patrick's Day.”

And with that explanation, the newly Irish Beagle Posse sighed, curled up, and began to dream of chasing bunnies through shamrocks.

Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made on.

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

The Beagle Posse and I were having a nice day watching sunshine melt snow. Tommy said, “While you're resting, we want to talk to you about your sleeping.”

“What about it?”

Tuppence spoke up, “We notice you've been talking a lot in your sleep, and your legs and arms sometimes jerk. That keeps us awake.”

I looked from the corner of my eye at them, “No one says you have to sleep on the bed with us.” The only reply to that was a growl from Tuppence. When there's growling to be done, she is the designated rumbler.

“And you think you can interpret my dreams and make me calmer?”

“Dreams are easy,” said Tommy. “We can tell you what your heart's desire is.”

“You mean you think I have a desire other than having less cheeky dogs?”

Tuppy sniffed, “You're lucky to have us. If we weren't here, you'd have no one to clean dropped food off the floor, and your yard would be over run with cats, postal workers, wussels and jagulars.”

“Yeah, and I'd have all that useless money I spend on kibbles, treats, flea protector, and vet bills. And what do you mean, 'dreams are easy'? People from soothsayers to psychiatrists have been trying to figure them out, and they still aren't sure.”

“Are they beagles?” Tommy asked.

“No, but some of them are very smart people.”

“But not beagles.”

“No.”

“Then they don't count.”

“Humans don't count?”

“Humans who don't fill our food bowls don't count.”

“OK, whatever you say. But you really think you can tell me what my dreams mean.”

Tuppence said, “In your dreams, is your nose pointed up or down.”

“My nose.”

“That's the whole key to dreams.”

Tommy went on, “There are only six kinds of dreams.”

“Oh, really?”

“In two major groups. Your nose is the indicator. Up or down.

“If it's up, you're either remembering when you chased a squirrel; or you are chasing a squirrel; or you are looking forward to when you're chasing squirrels. If it's down, you're either remembering when you chased a rabbit; or you are chasing a rabbit; or you are looking forward to when you're chasing rabbits. Those are the six kinds of dreams. Nose up, squirrel. Nose down, rabbit.”

“And you think one of those is what I'm dreaming?”

“One of those is any dream. Every dream.”

I pondered how to respond to that. “You know, it doesn't sound very scientific to me.”

Tuppence came right up to my face and said, “It is perfect psychological analysis. We are strictly Freudian.”

I started to laugh. “I'd have guessed you were Pavlovian.”

They snarled and stomped out the dog door. Tuppence tossed back, “I'll ring YOUR bell.”

The $250 Cheesecake.

In celebration of Deborah's first week at her new job, I decided to make a chocolate cheesecake. It's as good an excuse as I know of for chocolate cheesecake. On second thought, does a foodie really need an excuse to for chocolate cheesecake? On third thought, is there ever an excuse to NOT make a chocolate cheesecake?

Actually, this particular confection is a “Triple Chocolate Cheesecake.” It has an Oreo cookie crumb crust, Ghiradelli dark chocolate in the filling, and a chocolate ganache topping. An all day commitment. What with the prep, the hour bake, the hour rest in the oven, the 6 hours cooling before making and applying the ganache; one has to be committed. It may be one deserves to be committed for deciding to cook this.

The prep, as always, reminded me of the time we made a $250 cheesecake.

This was back in 1983. Deborah and I had been married about a year, and were not yet with children, both doing well professionally, and living the yuppie life. (Well, kind of a hippie/yuppie life. Which pissed off both real hippies and real yuppies. It was fun.)

The food channel had just gone on the air, and one of their recipes was published in “Gourmet” or some such mag, so we set out to spend a Saturday whipping it up. First a trip to the Supermarket for ingredients. MUCH cream cheese, eggs, Mexican vanilla, heavy cream, butter, and Graham crackers for crust. We were, and are, believers in “great ingredients for great food.” So, we spared no expense.

Back home with the haul, we let the cheese come to room temp, and glanced back over the recipe. OOPS! We needed a springform pan. Off to Buffalo Hardware (Houston's answer to Williams-Sanoma), cash down for a pan, and home. Knowing the cheese would be soft by now.

The cheese was ready. We tossed ingredients into the mixing bowl and set the blades awhirl. Briefly. Then, the nasty aroma of burning wiring and seizing electric motor coming from our mixer. The little darling was not up to the task of all that heavy cream cheese. And promptly expired.

Off again across town to Buffalo Hardware. Now, having learned our lesson on mixers, we decided that for two yup-chefs like us, noting but a powerful Kitchen Aid would do. Out comes the Amex. Zip goes the card printer. Home goes a CHUNK of a mixer.

We unboxed it, washed it, gave the instructions a glance; then set back to work on the designated dessert. Dusk was gathering by the time it entered the oven. Our foodie hearts were filling as our foodie wallets were emptying. The cheesecake was good. Late that night. Calculations a couple of days later indicated that it was priced at about a dollar a fork full. In 1983 dollars. Mitt Romney probably couldn't afford to serve it today.

So, today's chocolate wonder is in the oven. And, since we still have, and I used, both the springform pan, and the mixer, this one must be free. Don't you think? Huh? Really.

And, I am sure that somewhere I read a scientific study that proved that free food contains no fats, no carbs, and no calories. At least I'll bet you can't show me a study that proves exactly otherwise.

Toby, k-puddles, and masters of music.

(This is the cast from season two.  All of the photos from season one seem to be lost.)

Most things have a beginning. And we seldom know when we are there until the beginning is long past.

At the start of the 1970s, I was lucky to be part of the beginning of the entertainment colossus that is Branson. Branson was a sleepier town then. It had a couple of hillbilly themed tourist attractions, but the point of them was mostly to give the wives something to do while their husbands fished on Lake Taneycomo and Lake Table Rock, and to give the whole family some entertainment in the evening after a day of sun, boating, and water. And the scenery was very nice. Branson was a pure joy before it became the mutated child of Las Vegas and Nashville, and the “or bust” target for buses full of blue haired fans in search of used-to-be country music stars.

You gave motorists directions in Branson then by saying something like, “You go to the 4 way stop....” There was only one; at the junction of the two lane highway 65 with the two lane East/West highway 76. Out 76 there were then only about 4 home-grown music shows on the way to the Shepherd of the Hills Farm, and Silver Dollar City. There was the Baldknobbers Hillbillly Jamboree, the Presley Family Music Show (no relation to Elvis), Jim Weatherly, and the Foggy River Boys. The Baldknobbers was the closest to real mountain music, and the Foggy River Boys the slickest, and musically best. But that's because the Foggy River Boys were actually someone else. The group was mostly comprised of the Jordanaires, a gospel quartet that sang backup for Elvis, Carl Perkins, Cash, and others at Sam Phillip's Sun Records in Memphis, and in numerous sessions for other stars in Nashville. They were tight, slick, and had the best voices and arrangements on the “strip.” Other D and C level national stars were eying the area, and beginning to move in. For instance, Boxcar Willie.

There was also the Corn Crib Theater. Corn Crib was a rustic outdoor theater presenting Toby Shows. A Toby Show is a classic American theater form lying somewhere between Melodrama and Vaudeville, combining a loosely plotted play wrapped around songs, musical numbers, and comedy bits. Toby, always the star of the show, was the “wise fool” hick who ended up putting one over on the city slickers. Toby shows were original plays written to suit the cast on hand. Several were presented during the decade Corn Crib ran. During the years I am speaking of, 71-72, the first years of the Corn Crib, I was the “triple hyphenate”, writing, directing, and appearing in the shows. The shows featured such classic corn pone lines as in this dialog from “Hills-a-Poppin”.

Mr. Bates: (the city slicker) You know, Toby, it looks to me like there isn't much distance between you and a fool.

Toby: Nope, just about half my porch between us.

It was the bottom rung of show business, it was great fun, and there were some talented people around, in our show and in the music shows; and in the growing number of side men and back up musicians beginning to come to the area. It was hard work, and because the show paid so little, all of the cast members worked day jobs as well as performing nightly. Terry (Bloodworth—more about him later) and I added yet another job to the first two. We got up and helped promote the show by broadcasting a 7:00 am radio show on local FM KPLD from the dining room of the Branson Holiday Inn. The show was called Coffee and Conversation, and I think to say we were awful would be to rate us too highly. We did that half hour show, then a day working as demonstrating 1880s blacksmiths and glass blowers at Silver Dollar City, before racing to the theater for the evening performance. We didn't get home before 11:30, even if we didn't meet up for some decompression with performers from Silver Dollar City or the music shows. And we got one day a week off. Yeah, it was a cushy gig.

The fun part was all of the talented people we got to hang out with. Young and old. The owner/producer at Corn Crib was Lloyd “Shad” Heller. Shad's show experience covered everything from vaudeville to clowning with Ringling Brothers when it was still under the Big Top, to appearances on “The Beverly Hillbillies.” In the Toby show we had Richard Vahldick, Ragtime pianist extraordinaire. Richard could basically stare at any musical instrument for about 20 minutes, then pick it up and play it at a professional level. This was true for a range from trombones to banjos.

I'm only going to name two other cast members from Corn Crib, not because they weren't all talented, but because they all were, and I cherish our time and friendship. The two others I'll name are the aforementioned Terry, who has combined acting and glass blowing into a truly creative life, and I want to plug his shop, Springfield Hot Glass. And Sandy, who achieved a not-quite 15 minutes of fame when her nearly full page photo appeared in the late 70s in the National Enquirer along with the story entitled “The Girl Who Broke John Goodman's Heart.” One of the funniest stories I ever read. Not funny because it was false; funny because it was so true. She broke John's heart. Heartbreaking was a craft she perfected.

Two other good friends met during the time were the late Howard Hale, all-round musician with the Baldknobbers show, and the pride of Ash Grove, Missouri, and D. A. Callaway.

Howard was a pretty typical, shy, musician. I think he hung around the Corn Crib cast trying to get up the courage to ask one of the girls in the cast out. Any one of the girls. At least in the years I was around, he never developed the guts. Howard moonlighted (moonlit?) as a Taney County Sheriff deputy. As such, he was very handy to many of the musicians and actors in the area concerning heads up about local law “Wacky Tobaccy” raids. I owe you another whole story about the New Year's Eve “Ass Busters” party where Howard settled a bet about awakening Weeping Will Carpenter with two rounds beside Will's head from his official issue .38.

D.A. is one of the finest comic musicians ever. He had several bands with great names. Bands like “The Midnight Plowboys.” (country boys given to agriculture best pursued after dark—see the above “Wacky Tobaccy” reference.) Another was “Barkin' Snakes.”--In the Ozarks, if a fellow happened to accidentally release gas in a gathering, it was common for him to snap his head around and say, “I thought I heard a snake bark.” And then there was “The Smith Brothers.” This was a party band with a repertoire from such dark corners of the country boy mind that I won't even list song titles here, let alone full lyrics. Many years later, in fact just a few years back, D. A. appeared with Garrison Keillor on “A Prairie Home Companion” and their feature Talent From Towns Under 2,000. D. A. represented the town of Reed's Spring, MO.

Also among our group was a young actress we all knew as “Tessie.” You know her today as Golden Globe and Oscar nominee Tess Harper. She was beautiful, kind, and a wonderful performer at Silver Dollar City, and had, as she has now, eyes I heard described as “Blue like Windex.”

This was a time when there were also still “real” hillbillies around, and they were great people. One, John Corbin, observed of my performance of my one song in the Corn Crib show, “That boy's got a lot a music in him. Must have, cause ain't none of it ever come out yet.”

A final side story before I get to the incident which I remembered, and which remembering got me into this reverie.

That small radio station where Terry and I did the morning talk show also employed Richard Vahldick as a DJ some afternoons. The station was REALLY small and low power, and was located at one end of a small strip shopping center in Branson. The call letters of KPLD, we transmuted to “K'puddle.” The tower, such as it was, was in the alley out back. Also in the center was a small cafe where working men of Branson liked to get their midday coffee and gossip—free, unlimited refills on both.--A bit of technical info, a DJ working at a console can feed a signal to his headphones either from “line”, which is a direct feed of what's going through the control board, or from “air”, which picks up the feed from a dedicated radio receiver and provides sound that has actually been broadcast. Just a switch will toggle between the two. The wise DJ will monitor “air,” as that lets him know instantly if there's a problem anywhere in the chain, including the transmitter. “Line” will not.

“Air” does, however, give the slightest delay in the sound, and takes some getting used to. Richard was, therefore, monitoring “line.” And on this particular day, two of the working men who decided to drop in at the neighboring Chat 'n Chew were the crew from the Branson garbage truck. They parked out back, just a bit up the hill from the tower. As Richard later explained, “They musta forgot to set the air” on their truck. So, while they were in getting coffeed and donuted, the garbage truck rolled backwards down the hill and knocked down the transmission tower. Because Richard was monitoring line, he had no clue that he was out of the broadcasting business. He knew nothing until two very stinky men in smudged green coveralls came tromping in from the muddy alley, spreading red clay up the back hall of KPLD, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hey, we don't think yore on ta are no more.” (“are”= “air” in a community where “tire,” “tar,” and “tower” are all pronounced exactly the same.) Some may say, “garbage in, garbage out,” but this is a case where garbage stopped anything from going out.

And before anyone asks why I'm not discussing Silkey or Lyle here, that's because either of them is a book on his own.

The music theaters in Branson then, and in years to come, were “family oriented.” In the most conservative Christian meaning of the word. In fact, not a one of them would dare end a show without a “song of faith and devotion.” About the only place in the town where you you mix alcohol and music was the lounge of the Holiday Inn. That lounge was directly connected to the restaurant where we did the morning talk show. One of the requirements from the hotel management was that we plug the restaurant and lounge, and that we interview the musical acts appearing in the bar. One such fellow was a one man band kind of act who had a Les Paul Gibson guitar that he had somehow wired to an early, rudimentary synthesizer so that his frets contacting the metal strings would create harmonic tones in addition to the note played. Yeah, it sounded as much of a mish mash as that description. I'm not positively remembering his name, but I think he billed himself as something like, “The Royal Wayne Royal.” He played ALL of the “big” rooms on the circuit. Terry ran into him a few years later playing the bar of the Ramada in Harlingen, TX. Well, to be fair, and to save Terry having to 'splain anything to Julie, Terry saw his promotional poster out front of the hotel. Terry wasn't IN the bar.

The morning Terry and I were interviewing Mr. Royal—a tough task considering how much musicians hate getting up for early morning radio shows after performing until 2 am—Terry asked him, “What do you think it takes to succeed as a lounge performer?” The man of the magically wired guitar looked right into the microphone and said, “Well, you either have to have a gimmick, or you have to be a Master of Your Music. And I don't have a gimmick.”

Just think how successful he'd have been if, for instance, he'd had a Beagle Posse that talked to him.

That was a great time with great people—mostly great people.

Beagle Efficiency Experts.

Once again I made the mistake of leaving the TV on and the Posse in the room. Evidently TLC was running a show about “Efficiency Experts” during the 1950s, and how they timed the actions and output of workers in so-called “Time Motion Studies” to find more efficient ways for them to work. We know that it was just the classic Speed Up of workers wrapped in social science jargon. We know that, but of course beagles have no frame of reference for employer/employee politics.

They found me watching English Soccer on cable.

Tuppence was first to speak, “We have done a study, and you are feeding us very inefficiently.”

“Huh? Where did that come from?”

“Twice a day, at 6 am and 5 pm, you fill our bowls with kibbles. That means you bend down and pick up the bowls twice. You fill them twice. You add water twice. You bend down to set them on our mat twice. Very inefficient.”

I became suspicious. “Where's this going?”

“Then, around 11:00, you give us Elevenses. You walk to the kitchen, reach up to the top of the refrigerator, get dog biscuits, bend down and hand them to us. First of all, you need to ask yourself why you keep the biscuits six and a half feet up.”

“I keep them up there so some beagles don't help themselves.”

“Don't change the subject. We're talking about your inefficiency here. Not canine ingenuity.”

“You call stealing 'ingenuity'? Interesting.”

Tommy barked. “We're talking about your inefficiency here. To continue, and then you go to the pantry, get out rawhide, and bend down to give it to us as you serve your dinner. We have determined that you can save 7 bend downs and one water fill of two bowls by being more efficient.”

“Do tell.”

Dog smugness fills the room. “Just put all of the kibble, and the biscuits, and the rawhide in the bowl at once. First thing in the morning.”

“First off, the rawhide is to keep your jaws busy chewing while we eat dinner, and keep you from pestering us for our food. So, putting it in your bowl in the morning defeats the purpose. Second, if we gave you all of a day's food at 6 am, you'd gobble it, and you'd be hungry and pestering us again by noon. So, what about that?”

Tuppence, as usual, felt she knew. “You just give us a snack at noon.”

“But...”

“And we'll probably need something in the evening to keep our tummies quiet.”

“OK, your idea is for me to give you all of your current meals and snacks at once. And then to still give you food at the other times of the day. And you consider that efficiency?”

Tommy smirks, “It's a brilliant idea. Even Louie Gohmert or Sarah Palin couldn't have thought of this one.”

“No, I'm sure they couldn't have. But tell me, if I've still got to feed you at the other times, how is that more efficient? Plus, the way I calculate this, we'll be spending twice as much for dog food.”

“What you spend on dog food is budgeting, not time/motion. We'll work on your economics later. And, those other feedings are new and completely different tasks. We concentrated on current tasks. We'll have to do more study to make the new tasks efficient.”

I sighed, “So, your idea of efficiency is doubling the amount of work I do.”

“Efficiency Experts don't call it 'work.' Efficiency Experts call it 'accomplishing tasks.' And what we've accomplished is making your current tasks more than twice as efficient, so you now have more time for new, future tasks. You're welcome.”

“You know, you dogs sound just like Union Busters with pocket protectors, clip boards, and stop watches. I've seen your type before. More work in less time. More food for you. No reward or compensation for the worker who actually provides and serves the food.”

Tuppence cut in, “The efficiency guru we studied said you aren't happy because you have too much leisure in your day.”

I decided to get out while I could. “So, you say you did a study on this. Did you write it up in a report?”

“Yes,” said Tuppence. “Seven pages. It was a beauty.”

I asked, “Was?”

Tommy sniffed over his shoulder as he pushed through the dog door, “It looked like homework. So I ate it.”

Double Dog Dare on the Flight Line

        Phantom

                Huey

Fighter Pilots are the strutting peacocks of the military. Perhaps of the world.

This seems to have been true since WWI, and would probably have been true even earlier had there been airplanes any earlier.

A good collective noun for the group would be, “A Swagger of Pilots.”

This fighter pilot swagger had been developed to a high art form by the time of the Vietnam War. And close behind them, particularly after the internal application of Officer Club drinks, were Army helicopter pilots.

In most places, Army and Air Force Officers Clubs were on separate bases, but Bien Hua in South Vietnam was a Joint Base, Army and Air Force, and had one club. So, these two groups often found themselves together, with only their friend Jim Beam between them. Nightly, of course, began the scholarly discussion of relative flying prowess. This night, the discourse reached the “am not-am too” phase, and then the wagering phase began. The two delegations caucused, took collections, and soon there were two piles of $100 on the bar. The bet was set. Then the negotiation of terms began, along with more Beam negotiation lubrication.

An aside. Even for Junior Officers, $100 was quite a bit of money in those times. Plus, mixed drinks in the O Club were only 25 cents each. So, the lubrication was easier to assemble than the wager. The O Club in question was nothing fancy. Basically a concrete slab with a tin roof and screen wire walls. But, other than flying, there wasn't much else for our sky jockeys to do, so much time was spent there. The attractions were cheap drinks, bragging rights, and the nightly performance of rock bands. The bands were Korean or Filipino, and sang heavily accented covers of American hits. The music was not the draw. Each band had two to three go go dancers. These weren't technically strippers, but one would need to carefully read the technical literature to determine the difference. And one must remember, these pilots were all still shy of their 25^th birthday. So, what we have is a formula of testosterone, bourbon, scantily clad women, and boredom all blended in what are basically still adolescent brains.

Arriving at the conclusion of the negotiations, it was determined that one of the hardest feats in flying was to hover a helicopter, and that a flight line full of fueled Hueys was less than a half mile away. The bet was, could an Air Force F-4 pilot hover a chopper. If so, the AF won the bet. As a delegation of the whole, all decamped in a cloud of bourbontosterone, headed for the unsuspecting whirlybirds.

Located deep within a large, heavily-guarded base, the 'copters were neatly line up just about rotor tip to rotor tip. There were, of course, guards surrounding the airfield, but their focus was outward, looking for VC sneaking in, and they paid little attention to a group of boisterous pilots walking on the tarmac. That was not a rare sight. Even late at night.

The expensively trained and equipped warriors chose a Huey. For reasons known only to them, and to St. Murphy, the patron saint of flight, they chose one from the middle of the line, rather than either end.

Per the specifications of the bet, one of the Army helicopter pilots climbed aboard and fired up the bird. Lt. F-4 Phantom was confidently going to take to the air in a jet powered machine he didn't even know how to start. The AF wizard clambered aboard and strapped himself into the seat. The spectators quickly gave him plenty of maneuver room.

Goosing the jet turbine to a high scream, flyboy began to randomly manipulate controls to, “just see what this bird will do.”

What the bird did was to bounce, twist, and slam back and forth between the neighboring choppers. It was Huey pinball in the glare of the flight line mercury lights. Shards of plexiglass, smashed rotor tips, sheet metal, and other no-longer-identifiable aircraft parts filled the air. In a spectacular spray of expensive alloy, the engine rotors disintegrated, sending turbine blades bursting the housing and flying through the lights into the darkness. The pinball game didn't last long, and ended with aircraft 1 lying on its side, smoking and leaking JP-4 jet fuel, between the wrecked bodies of aircraft 2 and 3. The bet-losing pilot crawled out of the smoking fuselage, unhurt and looking for a drink.

Two Corporals from the airfield guard came running up, decked out in helmets, flack jackets, M-16s, and looks of astonishment. Their butts began to pucker as they pictured themselves being held responsible for the destruction of millions of dollars worth of government property they were supposed to be guarding. Then comes roaring up a jeep with the Officer of the Day. His first thoughts included questions about how the brass would hold him responsible for this. A quick meeting of everyone on the scene decided that they all had something to lose, and nothing to gain, from the scene of smoking wreckage.

In the end, everyone, including to base Commanding Officer, agreed that what had obviously happened was that two or three Vietcong Sappers had sneaked on to the base, with the intent of stealing a helicopter. On hearing the engine start, over the sound of the Korean rock band, and from half a mile away, the group of both Air Force and Army pilots instantly deduced what was happening and rushed to the field to stop it. They arrived just in time, and the panicked VC crashed the helicopter they were trying to steal. As was usual, the VC used the confusion of battle to slip off and escape into the night. ALL agreed, this is exactly what must have happened. There was no other logical explanation.

The F-4 pilot at the center of the action discovered that he did have a bleeding cut on his left pinky. On the basis of this wound, he applied for a Purple Heart, because Phantom Jet pilots usually had to be on the losing end of a confrontation with a MIG or a Surface to Air Missile to get a Purple Heart—and then got them posthumously. Command denied the request.

Nothing to Sneeze at.

“Tommy, what the heck is THIS?!!”

A slow Tommy roll to his left, and a lazy, “I have no idea, it was like this when I came in here. I just laid down on it. You really ought to make a clean place for me.”

“I was in here just before you came in. It was not like this.”

“Then the cat did it.”

“Tommy, we don't have a cat.”

“Yeah, cats are really sneaky like that.”

“Hey, beagle boy, Deborah has a cold, she needs those tissues.”

“I let her use 'em first. Those came out of the trash.”

“Oh, gross. AND, I thought you just said you didn't do it.”

“I didn't, but if I HAD, that's how I would have done it.”

“Well, anyway, this is going to affect treat distribution.”

“Not fair, you can't prove I did it.”

“I can prove it to my satisfaction, and that's all that counts.”

“You have to sleep sometime.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Ummmm, wanna hear a joke?”

“Whatever.”

“Say, terrified.”

“Terrified.”

“Say, tissue.”

“Tissue.”

“Say them together real fast.”

“Terrified Tissue.”

“OK, but you have to buy me dinner first.”

“Gag, Tommy, that's a really old, bad joke. Even for a beagle.”

“Well, they were old, used tissues.”

The Posse greets you in the New Year.  May 2015 bring you dreams of slow squirrels, people dropping morsels of steaks, and warm, snuggled couch naps.