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.”