The Posse Makes a Distinction

Quite a bit of the time, the Beagle Posse confuses me.  Of course, a lot of things confuse me, but I write about the Posse.

With the lure of some bits of cheese, I called them together to see if I could get some explanations.

“Dogs,” I said, “Why is it that some things in the yard and the street produce crazy barking fits, and other things that are almost the same get ignored?”

“You got any more cheese?” mumbled Tommy with his mouth full.

“Not until I get some answers.”

“Hrummpf,” said Tuppence.  “We don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.  Give us some f’rinstance.”

“OK,” I said, “a big one.  When the school bus stops in our street, you bark and howl like crazy.  When the equally big garbage truck stops, you snooze away and don’t make a sound.  Why’s that?”

“That’s obvious, is what that is,” says Tommy.

“Explain it to me.”

“Well,” says Tuppence, “obviously, the big yellow thing stops and gobbles up all of the kids who stand on the corner every morning—that should scare the hell out of you, a kid-eating monster.  We HAVE to drive it away.  If it will eat kids, it will eat dogs.”

“The big blue thing,” says Tommy, “gobbles up and hauls away all the stinky garbage.  So, it’s ok. You don’t think kids and garbage are the same thing, do you?”

“I think two noisy trucks are close to the same thing.  And you LOVE stinky stuff.  You roll in it every time you can.”

“That,” says Tuppy, “is different stinky stuff.  The garbage stuff you won’t let us roll in.  Therefore, we have no use for it.  It might as well be hauled off by the blue monster.  Even a human should see that difference.”

“I’m not sure I do, but here’s another.  The UPS man comes in the yard, and you nearly tear down the walls with Heavy Metal barking.  Yet, the yard man, with a noisy weed whacker, comes up the same walk, and you sleep away on the couch,”

“Man,” says Tuppence, “you really are dense.  That UPS guy is evil.  Obviously.  And he wears brown shorts in the summer—with black socks.”

“Beagle fashion police,” I sighed.  “Why do you say he is evil.  He usually brings stuff we need.”

Tommy jumped in, “Yeah?  Once he brought that flea stuff you put on our back.  Evil.”

Tuppence added, “It smells like medicine, it’s oily, and we don’t have fleas.  We don’t need it.”

“Did you dogs ever think, the reason you don’t have fleas is because of that flea medicine?”

“That’s your opinion,” sniffed Tuppence.  “Anyway, the lawn guy is a good guy, because he scares off squirrels.  So, we don’t bark at him.”

“But you like to bark at squirrels,” I said.

“To scare them off,” said Tommy.

“QED,” added Tuppence.

“Everything we do is to keep the place safe,” said Tommy. “You’re welcome.”

I tried another.  "Sometimes at night, you raise cane over a small noise outside."

"It might be something," says Tommy.

"Other times," I added, "there's a noise, and you sleep right through."

"It's probably nothing," said Tuppence.

I was just about defeated.  “Posse, your differences and distinctions make no sense.”

“Neither do humans,” said Tommy.

“Yeah,” said Tuppence, “You humans bark and carry on like crazy when some dumb Muslim kid with a non-working shoe bomb even tries to get on a plane.  Yet you sleep right through it when white guys with M-16s shoot up a bunch of schools and theaters.  You explain that, and we’ll explain trucks and buses, ok?”

I gave the Posse the rest of the cheese.

Of Frenchmen and Talking Dogs

Once again, a reader has asked me, “Do you think your dogs talk to you?”  So, it’s time, again, to address that.

This is actually a two part question, and I’ll discuss the parts individually.

The first part, “Do you think?” is a question with which philosophers have wrestled since ancient times, and I doubt we’ll reach a conclusion today.  But, first, yes, I think I think, but you see, there’s the pesky circular reasoning.  One cannot conclude that one thinks without saying, “I think I think.”  Not very helpful.  Famously, Frenchman Rene Descartes put it, “Cogito ergo Sum,” (I think, therefore I am.) though why a Frenchy would resort to Latin is beyond me.  The French language is obscure enough without going all ancient speak on us.

In any case, this question has always been a philosophical rumble in the streets.  The deep (or shallow, depending) question is one of actual existence and reality.  Is thought the immaterial response to a material world, or is a material world the product of immaterial thought?   I don’t suggest wrestling with that unless you have at least a six pack of a nice Ale, or a bottle of an adequate Chianti near to hand.

The point is, we will not reach any definitive answer to this, and thus, must leave the first part of the two-part question to future philosophers to attempt to unravel.

The second part of the question:  “(Do) your dogs talk to you?” is easier.

Yes, they do.

Sleep Well Tonight, Your Beagles are Awake

WHAT?   WHERE?  WHY?

Two AM, and we were jerked wide awake by the sound of Tsunami-level destruction in the front room. An adrenaline pumping, terrified run from the back bedroom to the front of the house was accompanied by the sounds of beagles barking wildly, howling, aarrooing, slamming around the room and into the sliding glass doors, and frantic claw scraping/rattling on the glass.

I was sure we were being home invaded, and the Beagle Posse had saved our lives.  Evidently they were sure of that too.

I rushed to the window.  “What’s out there, guys?”

They spoke all at once.  I’m not even sure who said what.  “Awful.  Giant. Prehistoric. Slimy, scaley. Evil on the hoof.”

I didn’t see anything yet.  “There. There,” said Tommy.  “Right under the bird feeders.”  And then I saw the possum.

The garden intruder seemed to head for the back, and the Beagle Posse nearly knocked both humans over as they flew over the arm of the couch and bounded down the hall to the dog door to the back yard.  They were heading it off at the pass, I guess.  The noise level was still high enough I was tempted to take a count of just how many dogs were actually in the house that night.  I didn’t think only two of them had that volume.  They pushed it to Dog Eleven.

We followed them back, and even though the possum seems to have never actually entered the back yard, the excited slamming back and forth through the dog door, and the yipping, and the bouncing off the foot of the bed went on for quite some time before I calmed them enough to talk to them.

“DON’T DO THAT!” I calmly explained.  “When you scare us in the night like that, it’s really difficult to get back to sleep.  And humans don’t spend the day napping in sun spots on the couch.  We have work to do, and chores to see to.  We need our sleep.”

Tuppence just sniffed.  “Well, you need to be safe from possums too.”

I said, “I know of no human who has ever been attacked by a possum in their sleep, while safely locked in their house.”

“Google it,” said Tommy. “I’ll bet there has been.”

“Yeah, “I said.  “One in a million million chance.”

Tommy shot back, “You wouldn’t be so smug if you were the one who woke up wrestling a possum in your sheets.  We’re here to see that doesn’t happen to you.  You’re welcome.”

“I’m going to try to get back to sleep.  And if you ever wake us again with a possum alarm, and the possum isn’t actually IN THE HOUSE, it’s going to mean no raw hide chews for a week.  Got it?”

“But, if it’s in the house……..,” Tuppence began.

“Get out!  Get back to sleep!  Now!”

And I crawled back under the covers.  Foolishly thinking that beagles might learn by category, not just by specifics.

We finally got back to sleep, and slept somewhat fitfully, dreaming of wrestling possums in our sheets, until awakened for beagle breakfast at Six AM.

The very next night:

WHAT?   WHERE?  WHY?

Three am this time.  And it sounded like a 737 full of beagles had crash landed in the living room.
I went in, and things looked like the possum scene all over again.

“Dammit, Posse.  I told you not to wake us because of the possum.”

Tuppence was breathless.  “Not a possum.  Nope.  Not a possum.  We learned our lesson.  This is twice as bad.”

“Awful, awful, awful,” said Tommy.  “Horrible with masks and claws, and everything.”

I quickly did the math.  “A raccoon?”

“Two,” shouted Tommy.  “Two raccoons.”

“OK,” I sighed.  “Do you two remember the possum discussion we had just last night?  The one about not waking us up because of things out in the yard?”

“Some of it,” said Tommy.

“Well, you better remember all of it. It applies to raccoons as well.”

“What about………,” started Tuppence.

“It applies to all critters, all the time.  You better not wake us for anything in the yard that is shorter than six feet tall.”

“Is that human feet, or beagle feet?” asked Tommy.

“Anything that can’t stand flatfooted and look over the fence, I don’t want to hear about.”  And I stomped back to the bedroom.

Fool that I am, I thought to myself, “That settles that.”

And on the THIRD night, about three, I was awakened not by barking and bedlam, but by Tuppence snuffling and licking my ear, and Tommy jumping on the bed and bouncing us.

WHAT?   WHERE?  WHY?

“We just wanted to tell you,” said Tuppence, “that there’s nothing scary out in the yard, and we won’t be waking you tonight with any critter alarms.”

They jumped down from the bed and headed up the hall.

I SWEAR I saw the little jerks paw bump as they left the bedroom. I know I heard them giggle.

42d Street Beagles

There I was, sitting on the couch with my laptop, doing the essential work of trading barbs on Face Book.  I could see into the kitchen, and one end of the hall.

The Beagle Posse would periodically come panting up the hall, trot straight to their water tower in the kitchen, gulp down mighty gulps, and dripping water from their jowls, purposefully head back down the hall.  And they hadn’t said a word to me in a couple of hours.  They were on a mission.

With each trip to the water bowl, the mud on the Posse became higher.  First just paws.  Then halfway up the front legs. Then to the shoulders.  When it got to the middle of their ears, I knew I should intervene.  This had all of the signs of previous chipmunk mining days, or similar rodent-centered prospecting in the back yard.

The next time he trotted by I said, “Tommy, stop.  What’s going on.”

He slurped, tossed, “No time” over his shoulder, and hustled back down the hall.

Next was Tuppence.  I tried to get her to explain.  She said, “Busy” and disappeared down the hall.  I could hear the dog door flapping as she rushed through.

I decided I better find out. I got the treats whistle, and a couple of chunks of cheese, and whistled for the dogs.  Nothing. They didn’t appear.  That was very strange.  No, that was unprecedented.  They can smell me get cheese from the fridge across a back lawn, through a closed door, and past 4 rooms.  And the whistle for treats always brings a rush of paws.

It was time to check.  I got my cane and headed down the hall to the back door.  No telling what was happening.  It could be an escape tunnel under the fence as they played “Stalag Beagle,” or even a new dog swimming pool being excavated.  The one thing I knew was it involved a lot of beagle work, and a lot of mud.  This very combination was known to wreak havoc on both carpets and upholstery.

I looked out the sliding glass doors to the patio.  Tommy had a cave excavated under one edge, and was chest deep in it, flinging dirt and gravel out.  Tuppence was fixated with her nose pressed into one of the joints in the concrete, obviously fully inhaling whatever was under there, and serving as some kind of digging GPS system for Tommy.

I slid the door open, whistled again, and held out the cheese.  Tuppence looked up, moving only her head, and Tommy reluctantly backed out of his tunnel—presenting mud dog for inspection.  

“WHAAAT?” they both said impatiently.

When beagles ignore cheese in hand, there is definite dogduggery in play.

I was exasperated.  “Dogs, I thought we had this patio tunneling stopped.  We had to buy 4 bags of pea gravel, and two bags of sand to fill in the other tunnels you dug.”

“We found a new place,” said Tommy.

“I smell ‘em,” said Tuppence, “and Tommy found their burrow.”

“What ‘them’?” I asked.

“We’re not sure,” said Tommy, and headed back to his cave.

“Wait!” I said. “You’re tearing up the yard, undermining the patio, and you don’t know what you’re chasing?”

Tuppence looked up and sang, “Some enchanted evening, you may smell a rodent, you may smell a rodent across a crowded yard.”

Not to be outdone, Tommy began rhythmlicly clicking a claw on the concrete and sang, “When you’re a Beag, you’re a Beag all the way, from your first rabbit catch ‘til your last dying day.”

No good comes from letting beagles listen to Broadway show tunes.

“That doesn’t answer the question.   What are you chasing?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Tommy.  “Process is important, not outcome.”

“The only outcome I see is a couple of muddy dogs who are going to need baths before climbing into bed tonight.”

Tommy said, “No, we’ll just wipe the mud off on your sheets.”

I tried not to explode.  I really did.  But I was building a head of steam like a fundamentalist preacher at a Pride Parade.

Tuppence gave a low growl and said, “Bath?  Have you met my pearly white friends Mr. Cay and Mr. Nine?”

We had some paving stones waiting to be used in a garden path.  A couple of those blocked the new Tommy tunnel.  Tommy just sat staring at it.  Then he looked up and said, “Well, when does the stone roll away?”

I said, “Tommy, that’s a different story all together.”  And he began sniffing along the edges of the patio looking for a new location.

Tuppence was still sitting at my feet just inside the dog door.  I slid the human door closed, and she got up and strutted through the dog door.

As she made her entrance onto the patio, I heard Tommy sing, “Well, Hello, Tuppence, yes, hello, Tuppence, it’s so nice to see you back where you belong…..”

I’m not going to win this, am I?

There's a Bigfoot in the Boysenberries

(Yes, the names have been changed, but it sure ain’t the innocent we’re protecting here.)

There has seldom been as grand a time as the early days of the tourist industry in Branson, Missouri.  These were the days when the “shows and attractions” were home grown and home staffed, and before the Nashville/Vegas glitz invaded.

Besides the colorful locals, the summer tourist season, basically Memorial Day to Labor Day, would see an influx of late teen, early twenties performers, musicians, ride operators, cave guides, and what have yous.  Mostly what have yous. And the primary aim of all seemed to be to finish the work day so the beer night could begin.  One such group, who at times styled themselves as a fictional Roller Derby team, “The North Elm Street Ass Busters,” was well into the evening International Crisis Seminar, Shakespearean Authority Discussion, and Poker Game, when two of the late arriving Ass Busters busted in.

Bobby Jim and Bud rushed breathlessly into the room. That in itself meant nothing.  They were both out of shape heavy smokers, so they did most things breathlessly.   They had just returned from a high speed pursuit of beer on Missouri State 248 from Reed’s Spring Junction to North Branson.  248 is a dark, winding two lane blacktop through woods and small farms—unlighted, and known as one of the most unsafe highways in the state.

“We seen him!” shouted Bobby Jim.  “Damn, he was right there hitch hiking.” A few lazy eyes looked up from the beer and cards.

“Bigfoot!” explained Bud.  “Leanin’ on a mailbox.”

“Did you pick him up?” asked someone.

“Oh, HELL no!” exclaimed Bobby Jim.  “He looked way too much like my prom date’s dad.  And that Old Boy ain’t forgive me for getting her home at 6 am.”

“Nope,” said Buckwheat.  “It was an insult to his family honor to get her home before 7.”

Bud jumped in.  “Well we talked about it, but it’s not a good idea to pick up your average Bigfoot.”

Bud was the group authority.  On any topic.  Whether he knew anything or not.  The group had heard him expound at length on everything from the theory of hydraulic power (“Now, you take your run of the mill hydraulic installation.”) to the proper ratios for mixing Kool Aid (“They have shown, if you mix Kool Aid wrong, it loses all nutritional value.”)  So, from atop his mountain of misinformation, he began to enlighten the assembled.

“Your average Bigfoot,” he continued, “is always hungry.  Now, we knew that this late, the Dairy Queen was closed, and we couldn’t get him to food quickly.  Those things will turn man eater.  Also,” he rambled, “we only had that one case of beer in the back, and we didn’t want him to break into it before we got back here with it.  Plus, a drunk Bigfoot is not easy to reason with.”

Just as he was warming to his topic, Harold’s cop walkie talkie squawked.  Harold was a full time banjo player, and a part time Sheriff deputy in Taney County.   A handy guy to have around when drooling-drunk musicians and performers gathered.  He played nightly, except Sunday’s, with a local hillbilly music show called, “The Baldknobbers Jamboree.”  The original Baldknobbers, back in the late 19^th, early 20^th century, had been a group of hooded night riders dispensing vigilante justice around the region.  Some said they modeled themselves after the Klan, but were especially cantankerous due to finding themselves living in a county with no black citizens to terrorize.  Why they became legendry folk heros, with a cornball music show named after them, is a monument of the fuzziness of the average American’s understanding of history.

The warning on Harold’s radio interrupted Bud’s dump of information about drunken ape-men.  

“Trouble at the Farm,” Harold said, and ran for his car, popping the cigarette lighter Kojac light on the top, and roaring off toward Highway 76, and out to the Shepherd of the Hills Farm—one of the large tourist attractions of the area at that time. They were a big employer and tax payer, and got the attention of local law enforcement if they called for it.

The departure of the only guy who was both sober and carrying a fire arm put an end to any thoughts of a Bigfoot expedition, and the house went back to the business of beer, cards, and solving international crises.

The “Farm” where Harold was headed was actually a complex of tourist attractions build around the questionable claim that it was the original location of much of the action in a sappy 1907 novel written by Harold Bell Wright called, “The Shepherd of the Hills.”

It included a huge “Gift Shop” full of tourist tacky, a couple of faux log cabins purporting to be the residences of the characters from the book, horseback rides through “The Shepherd’s hills,” and a large outdoor theater where in summer a nightly pageant of the book was performed, complete with a winsome Ozarks lass, horses, fist fights over the favors of the lass, and a cabin that “burned down” nightly.

Of course, to service all this “authentic” history, there were several disguised and hidden modern buildings housing kitchens, warehouses, maintenance sheds and machinery, and such.

Among the Ozarks food items sold and shipped out of the gift shop was a line of Home Made jams and jellies cooked up in the commercial kitchens, packaged in fake home canning jars, and stored in boxes of overpriced sugary product stacked ready for the store.

About 30 miles by road, and 6 miles as the crow flies from the site of Bobby Jim’s and Bud’s Bigfoot, we have the entrance, under cover of darkness, of a local character with his own set of fairly large pedal accessories.  Jerome was a freak of nature, perhaps, an intellectually pretentious hillbilly in a large scale body.  Tall, with a large thrusting nose which he kept pointed skyward, a chunk of a chin protruding from constantly quaking jowls, and feet a less weighty man could have water skied on.  He also supplied to the atmosphere a highly questionable regimen of personal hygiene and about a pickup truck load of constantly offended attitude.

Most recently, Jerome had been offended by the owners of the Shepherd of the Hills farm when they terminated his employment for having been found sleeping  his shift away in one of the log cabins.  Jerome felt that the unkind things they said to him about sleeping while collecting wages constituted, “A personal affront.” 

During the “get the hell out of here” portion of the exit interview, there came a great disagreement as to the amount of, or even the very fact of, severance pay.  The owner’s position could be summed up as, “Not one damn cent.”

So, a dull blue and rust Dodge panel van cut down to a pickup carrying Jerome and a couple of his cousins was crunching up the back gate gravel drive to the jelly-jam warehouse door.  Jerome had decided that he would collect his own severance pay in the form of cases of jellies and jams.

Earlier in his employment, he had stolen a set of keys to the padlocks on the warehouses, as a contingency plan for future requirements.  There would be no “breaking” part to this breaking and entering.  As Jerome saw it, he was just balancing an injustice that had been done him.

Our burglar was no cat.  Jerome was lacking in graces, both social and physical.  Therefore, he was stealth in neither voice nor lurching locomotion.  The noises, combined with the fact that this was not his first foray onto the Farm that week, managed to alert the night watchman.  A box on the company organization chart that Jerome had failed to notice.

This watchman, the great uncle of one of the managers, was official enough looking with his Khakis, black leather utility belt, and sewn on badge.  But the only weapon with which he was entrusted was a black 6-cell flashlight, and a large ring of keys.  Therefore, after a distant look at the invading forces, he retreated to his guard shack and called the Sheriff.

That’s the call that set in motion the walkie talkie squawk to Harold, and sent him and about five other deputy cars roaring toward the scene of the crime.

Six cars, both county and reserve-deputy personal, skidded through the gravel and pinned the thieves with headlights and spotlights in the doorway of the warehouse.  The Boysenberry Hill Mob was loaded down with cases of jam, and headed to add them to the several already in the bed of the wheezing truck.

The night was filled with calls of, “Stop, halt, and what the hell, Jerome.”  (This was not the first discussion of legal statutes Jerome had engaged in with some of the deputies.)

Jerome began bellowing, “I’m only taking what I got a right to.”

To which the head deputy explained, “Shut the hell up, Jerome, and get in the cruiser.”

Weeks later, when the “Great Boysenberry Caper” as it was known around the Sheriff's office, finally made it onto the docket of the Taney County court over in Forsyth, Jerome was dumbfounded to discover that the judge ruled, under Missouri Jurisprudence, “Avenging a Personal Affront” was not considered a sufficient defense for stealing cases of jam.

The judge knew Jerome, and all of his extended family.  He knew the young man was thick headed and obnoxious, but not dangerous, so he suspended the sentence.  One thing that did not come out at the brief trial was what accounting system should be used to figure the value of jam converted to wages.

As to the jam.  Sadly, by US food safety laws, once it had been out of the control of both the wholesaler and the retailer, it could not be certified as safe for human consumption. Any that Jerome and the crew had touched had to be destroyed.  Several jars met their fate as they were destroyed on the breakfast tables of the Prosecuting Attorney, the Sheriff, and the Judge.

With the wane the early days of Branson, and the big shows moved into the area, less and less was seen or heard of the Bigfoot of Highway 248.  Local rumor has it that at the turn of the century, he was allied with a motorcycle gang out of Kansas City, and running a meth lab up in one of the Ozarks hollows.

Beagle is a Verb

It’s not always smart to ask busy beagles what they are up to. The Beagle Posse had made several trips up and down the hall, purposefully trotting back and forth as if preparing for something.  I sat and watched. 

On one of the passes, Tuppence said to me, “You better get a pen and paper, we’re about to begin your first lesson.”

“I don’t remember signing up for any lessons,” I said.

Tommy tossed over his shoulder, “We took care of your enrollment.  It’s for your own good.”

“It’s for your own good,” is one of those phrases which contain a built in lie.  Like, “Someone needs to tell you,”  “Only a friend would say,”  “You’ll just feel a little pressure,” and “Believe me.”  Immediately, I got suspicious.

Finally they arrayed themselves in front of me with an aspect of great purpose.

“It gets tiresome,” says Tuppence, “to have to always talk to you in Human.  So, we have decided to teach you to speak Beagle.”

“That’s a language?” I asked.

“Shut up and learn,” snapped Tuppence.

I said, “Well, even if I learn Beagle, I’ll still have to translate for the readers.”

“That’s the beauty of teaching you here in the blog,” said Tommy.  “The readers get the same lessons you do, and they will learn Beagle too.”

“Uh huh.”

“OK,” said Tuppy, “We’ll start with the easiest word in our language.  Repeat after me, Woof.”

“That’s just,” I started.

“REPEAT,” said Tupp.

“Woof,” I said.

“You need to hold your mouth longer, and start deeper in your throat,” said Tommy.

“Woof,” I said.  “What’s that mean?”

“Woof?” said Tommy.

“Yeah, Woof.  What’s it mean?”

“Woof,” said Tommy again.

“It means, Woof,” said Tuppence.

“Well,” I asked, “what part of speech is it?  How is it used in a sentence.”

“It IS a sentence,” said Tuppence.

“But I’ve heard you say a bunch of woofs in a row,” I said.

“That’s a paragraph,” Tommy said.

“What,” I tried again, “is Beagle sentence structure?  Is woof a noun, a verb, a pronoun, an adjective, a gerund?”

Tuppence said, “We saw a Gerund once out on the bird feeder.  It wasn’t sure what it was.” 

The Posse leaned against each other laughing.  They thought this was very funny.  Then Tuppence continued, “Beagle language doesn’t have parts of speech.  Every word is a verb.  Every word means for you or someone or something to do something.   Like feed us or run.”

I said, “The only Beagle words I’ve heard you guys say are woof, aaarrooooo, whine, and growl.”

“It’s a question of context,” said Tuppence.  What woof means depends on how you say woof.  And how you hold your tail.  Now, try saying woof again, and wag your tail harder as you do.”

“I don’t have a tail,” I said.

“If you aren’t even going to try, we can’t teach you anything,” said Tommy.

“Woof,” I said.  “When do I get to learn growls?  I kind of feel one coming on.”

“Growls are in the advanced class,” said Tuppence.

“And aaarrooooo isn’t a word,” said Tommy.  “It is a song.”

“OK, now,” said Tuppence, “now that you and the readers have had lessons in Beagle, since you’re always telling stories about us, we’re going to tell a story about you.”

The Beagle Posse looked at each other, nodded, and began together:

Woof Woof Woof Woof

Woof woof woof woof woof woof woof.  Woof woof woof woof woof.

Woof woof woof WOOF!

And they walked off laughing uproariously with each other.

Squirrelsquatch.

It is like a scene from “The Idylls of the King.”   I am settled on one end of the couch, Kindle in hand, second cup o’ at my elbow, screen open to a nice frivolous Phryne Fisher mystery, ready for a relaxing read.  The Beagle Posse is curled up at the other end of the couch, snoozing away in the large sun spot streaming in through the East window.  A quiet morning in heaven—or Indianapolis, anyway.

Suddenly, like a single switch is thrown, both beagles spring into howling action and tear across my lap at full throat, headed down the hall.  They knock the Kindle from my hand, and, since I am wearing shorts and a t-shirt, leave beagle claw acceleration furrows across both of my thighs and my left forearm.  My armor must be at the cleaners.

I can hear the Posse in the back yard.  They sound like a thousand beagle auctioneers trying to sell an Arrrooo!  I need to check. So I pass by the kitchen to grab a paper towel to dab at the drops of red beginning to appear on the claw furrows, and go to the back. 

Tommy and Tuppence are absolutely frantic.  Tearing around the back yard and jumping at the fences like they are hearing a dog-whistle pitched trumpet in the clouds announcing a second coming.  I see and hear nothing but their carrying on.

“Dogs!  Dogs!  Posse! Tommy! Tuppence! Settle down.  What’s up?”

It takes a while, but I get their attention, and get them to come to me and explain.  They gallop up, panting, whining with pent up rage, and popping back and forth through the dog door.  Tommy is the first to get his breath.  “Sasquatch!  LOTS of Sasquatch!  Sasquatcheses.  Sasquatchi.  Big Foots.  Big Feets.  An Invasion!”

“No,” I say, “I don’t think so.  It’s a nice cool, sunshiny September morning.  You’re in a suburb of Indianapolis, Indiana.  I doubt we’re under attack from a clan of mythical monsters.  I doubt there’s even one out here. And you scratched hell out of my legs and arm. Look at this.”

Tommy breathlessly says, “Small price to pay for protection from those Ape Men.  They won’t scratch your arm.  They’ll tear your arm clean off.”  He takes up the howl again, dashes through the dog door saying, “Can’t you smell their evil scaly, slimy fur?”

“Posse, the only thing I smell is the beagle BS you are spouting.  There ARE no Big Foot monsters.  Not here.  Not anywhere.”

Tuppence, the beagle voice of reason, finally catches her breath to say, “OK.  OK, then.  It’s mountain lions.  Pumas.  Lots and lots.  Huge, snarling, ravening cats.  Howling and clawing at the fences.  Save yourself.  We’ll hold ‘em off as long as we can.”

“Ravening?” I ask.

“In the worst possible way,” says Tuppy.  And the mindless barking, bugling, and banging back and forth through the dog door raises again to a level of eleven.  “And we’re gonna need extra treats for energy for the battle.  Go get ‘em.”

“No.  No treats for this nonsense.  There are no Sasquatch.  There are no Mountain Lions.  This is a simple backyard.  The only disturbance is a couple of crazy beagles.”

“OK.  OK,” pants Tuppy.  “Then it could be those two Hell Hounds from up the street. Bloodthirsty man eaters on the prowl.”

I think for a minute.  “You mean the two Chihuahuas?”

“Yes!” declares Tommy.  “With their slobbery, vicious fangs.”

I’m tiring of this.  “They don’t weigh much over two pounds between them, and they aren’t allowed out of their yard.  I think we’re safe for the moment.

“OK, Posse, we’ve gone from Big Foot to Chihuahuas in less than three minutes.  What’s really going on out here?”

“Well,” says Tommy, “maybe we heard a squirrel.”

“A squirrel?”

“Maybe.  A really vicious one.  Really vicious.”

“A squirrel?”

“Maybe.”

“We’ll let you know if he comes back.”

The Beagle in the World

A Travelogue. 

(As written by Tommy Beagle)

She’s putting on her walking shoes.  She’s putting on her walking shoes. She’s putting on her walking shoes.

Leash. Leash. Leash.

Yes, yes, yes, it’s Walkies.  WALKIES.

Whadda ya mean, “sit?”  I can’t wait.

Open the door.  C’mon, open the door.  Open. Open. Open.

Oh, Wow, the whole world is still here.

Look, look.  Grass, trees, sidewalk.

Oop.  Gotta pee.

Smells. Smells. Smells.

Pee mail check on the mailbox post.

Leave answer.

Squirrel!

This is my favorite street.

Pee mail check on the telephone pole.

Leave answer.

Bunny!

The Park!  My favorite.

Ducks! Ducks! Ducks!

Meet friends.  Sniff butts.

Squirrel!

Smells.  More smells. More smells.

I don’t wanta leave the park.

Wow.  The street from the other direction looks like a whole new street.  My favorite.

Ditch walking.

Ditch walking.

Ditch walking.

Pee mail check on Stop Sign.

Leave answer.

I can see home.  Come ON!

Chipmunk!

Look at me.  Studly beagle coming down your street.

My door.  Open it.  Open it.

Water, must have huge gulps.

Leash off. Curling up on my couch.

Whew!

How come you never take us on walkies? It’s been forever since walkies.

A Gem of Military Prose

Military prose has its own cadence, syntax, grammar, and logic.

For instance, a set of orders might tell a soldier. “Rpt NLT 1400, Orderly Rm, Co. C, 5^th Bn.  Having Had.”  All that meant was that the solder was to report to the headquarters office of Company C of the 5^th Battalion, before 2 pm, and was to have already eaten lunch (having had).

One Vietnam evening, Jesse came into the hooch with a folder.  He had borrowed it from his work in the USARV assignments office, and had to share what he swore was, “The single finest example of military prose since Caesar observed that he Vini Vidi Vici in Gaul.”

He had the personnel file of one PFC Smith, perhaps the most accomplished screw up in the war zone.  At least the biggest who was still living.  Smith was 9 months into his 12 month tour, and had already been reassigned 4 times.  Each unit choosing the “boot him along” option as opposed to all of the paperwork of a court martial.  His list of infractions was both lengthy and ingenious.  And, the cherry on top—he was a 31 Bravo, an MP.  A cop.

At present, Smith was in the Central Highlands with the MP detachment of the 4^th Infantry Division.  Jesse had the dilemma of trying to find a worse place to send Smith next.  There just wasn’t much worse than Infantry in the Central Highlands. But the reason Jesse had brought the file round to display was a single sentence of military prose.  In fact, the final line in the folder.  The last line written by Smith’s commanding officer in the document justifying the request that the PFC be transferred.

A couple of days earlier, there had been a Battalion formation to introduce the new commanding officer.  Depending on its mission, a battalion at full strength will be between 600 and 1,000 soldiers.  If it is at full strength.  In Vietnam, few were ever actually at full strength.

As the formation was dismissed and broke up, with a few hundred men wandering about a dusty parade ground, there was an informal meeting of the new CO, the Executive Officer of the battalion, and the Sergeant Major, along with the Company Commander and First Sergeant from Smith’s company.  There was no indication in the file what the meeting was about, but it might be safe to say there was a good chance the problem of PFC Smith was under discussion.  A CS Tear Gas grenade suddenly landed in the middle of this meeting group, and it began vigorously delivering its contents.

Then came the sentence that had awed Jesse.  The words he felt were historic and, in their own way, poetic.

“Although there is no substantive proof that PFC Smith did in fact deploy said ordinance, PFC Smith was only EM (enlisted man) in the area both in possession of, and wearing, a gas mask.”

The Adorable Basket

It was the most accusing Beagle tone I’d heard since the last time I was five minutes late with the Posse’s supper.

“You haven’t announced what basket we’re in.”  Snarled Tuppence.

I was momentarily confused. (my usual)  “What baskets are we talking about?  Why do you need a basket?”

“You humans,” said Tommy, “are busy going around saying what people are in what basket, and we need you to announce what basket beagles are in.”

The latest news cycle, the presidential campaign, all came rushing back to me then.  “Oh.  OK, I guess I’d put you in the Eat and Sleep basket.”

“BUZZZZZZTTTT!!!” shouted Tommy.  “Wrong.”

“We’re in the Adorable Basket, “explained Tuppence.

“The Adorable Basket? Hmmmmmm.”

“Well,” she continued, in THAT tone, “we certainly aren’t deplorable, so we go in the Adorable.----HEY, I made a rhyme.”

“I’ve made worse,” I admitted.  “But, just what do you think makes beagles eligible for the Adorable Basket?”

“We just ARE,” said Tuppence.

“You just are?”

Going kind of Cosmic, Tuppence said, “Beagles ARE.  By our very nature, and our state of being, we sort into the Adorable Basket.”

Tommy felt inclined to add, “We are adorable because we BE.  We just BE.  It’s right there in our name.  BE-gles.”  (Evidently spelling doesn’t count in beagle metaphysics.)

Tuppence picked up the thread.  “We try to teach that to you humans.  You could live happier if you were more about being and less about doing.  After all, you aren’t called ‘Human Doings.”

“Tupp,” I said, “I think you’re taking this blog in a far too fantastical direction there.  No one is going to believe beagles think that deeply.”

“Oh,” she said, “we didn’t think it.  We read it somewhere.”

“And that’s believable?” I asked.  “Dogs reading?”

The Posse ignored me.

“OK,” I said, to get the discussion back on track,  “You say you just BE.  But when you’re digging for chipmunks, chasing field mice, or barking madly up the tree at squirrels, you are certainly DOING.”

“No,” sighed Tommy.  “We’re BE-ing BE-gles.  Chasing rodents is how we BE.”

Too circular for me.  I said, “So, are all dogs in the Adorable Basket, or just beagles?”

“Most dogs,” said Tuppence.  “All beagles.”

“How democratic of you,” I said.  “What about McDuff next door.”

“Adorable.”

“Adorable.”

“And your online friends Portia and Cleopatra?”

Two paws up for Adorable.

“How about your Great Dane cousins out on the ranch in Nebraska?”

Tuppy got the explanation look in her eye.  “Great Danes are a special case.  They are in the Adorable Basket for about the first twelve to sixteen weeks of their life.  Then they move right on into the HOLY MOLY Basket.”

“So, you beagles put any kind of dog in your Adorable Basket.  You don’t sort by size, color, breed, flea status, or anything like that?”

“Of course we don’t,” said Tuppence.  “Sorting like that would be deplorable.”

Shortround

We met Shortround at the Induction Center in Kansas City.  That’s where all draftees and enlistees from Missouri began their military journey—the prodding, poking, eye-testing, “bend over and spread your cheeks” place where they decided if you were healthy enough to die for your country. (An Induction Center is where you find the “Group W Bench” made famous in song by Arlo Guthrie.)

We didn’t call him “Shortround” at the time.  A Sergeant at Fort Leonard Wood would give him that name.  Rocco, from St. Louis, called him, “You Stupid Little Shit.”  Rocco was a poet.

He was the shortest, scrawniest guy in the group going through medical.  He looked 15, but was proud to tell us he had just turned 17, dropped out of High School, and got “my mama” to sign the waiver so he could enlist.  He had an older brother already in the Army, and loudly-proudly let us all know, “I'm going Airborne.  I’m gonna kill Cong!”  He already had a US ARMY gym bag/carrier in which all of his prized possessions were carried.

“Airborne,” he proclaimed repeatedly.  “That’s where they teach you to be a real killer.  You learn to kill Cong with knives, guns, your BARE hands.”  About the time we were all truly sick of hearing this rant, his lethal bare hand was needed by a medic, so that his finger could be pricked for a drop of blood.

At the sight of that drop of blood, our Cong killing recruit fainted dead away and dropped to the floor.  Without a parachute.

Thus began a two-day drama that had several future veterans taking bets on events.  Every time a needle approached Shortround, whether to take blood out, or to put vaccine in, he fainted.  Of course, any time he was conscious, he was still proclaiming his plans at Airborne Cong slaughter.

(An explanation:  A “Shortround” is a shot from an artillery gun that, due to malfunction or misloading, falls short of its intended target.  Usually causing damage to friendly troops.  It is also a common name applied to vertically challenged soldiers in basic training.  Drill Sergeants being known, of course, for their depth of concern for the feelings of the recruits placed in their charge.)

Back to this particular short round.  He fainted on the finger prick.  He fainted on the inner arm blood draw.  He fainted on the tetanus shot.  And the typhoid shot. And the DPT shot.  From the Induction Center in Kansas City, to the Reception and Processing Center at Fort Wood, he seemed to spend as much time on the floor as on his feet.

The first thing as you step off the bus at the training center—Fort Wood in this case—you are “invited” to step up to a box and deposit all “contraband.”  These are the items the Army does not allow a recruit in training to have.  Contraband ranges from weapons and drugs, to candy and pornography.  Upon inspection of that Army gym bag, Shortround was relieved of three pocket knives and four Playboy magazines.  I never did quite figure out the relationship or the ratio of those two sets of items.

The final winner of the Shortround Sweepstakes, though, was when we were given the polio vaccine.  These were the days when the medical world was changing from the Salk vaccine injections to the Sabin oral vaccine.  So, each soldier was handed a sugar cube with a cherry-flavored drop on it.

Shortround popped his in his mouth, promptly turned white-faced, and dropped to the concrete. He awoke upchucking the vaccine and about 5 recent meals.

For the next couple of months of training, Shortround continued to proclaim his lofty goal of Asian carnage.  All the while struggling to complete nearly every training task.  He nearly failed Basic Training.  (Yes, you could fail Basic.  Either the physical fitness part, the “mental” parts, or, of course, the marksmanship requirements.  If you did fail, though, you didn’t get sent home.  You got “recycled”.  Sent back to do the whole Basic Training thing again.)

Shortround squeaked under the low bar, still proclaiming, on the day of graduation, his aim to “go Airborne and kill Cong.”

The Army was smart enough not to give him his wish.  Why put a Platoon or Company of expensively trained Airborne troops in that kind of danger?   Shortround spent the war under trucks in the motor pool, changing oil.  But he was the most badass wrench monkey in the whole US Army.

Abandonment issues

Tommy stuck his nose in my face.  “That was totally unacceptable.”

“What was, Tommy?”

“Both of you leaving for days and days and weeks and weeks, and many suppers.”

I understood.  “Tommy, Buddy, we were only gone for four days, and we left someone to take care of you.”

He sniffed, “A day is like a thousand years in the sight of the Beagle.”

“I’m not sure that’s an accurate citation of the verse.  Besides, we needed to visit Deborah’s family.  Both of her brothers were there that weekend. It looks to me like you have abandonment issues.”

“We don’t have issues.  We were abandoned.  That’s the issue.  Your family is all right here.  And half of it has four legs each.”

“Tommy, you know that’s not true.  You and Tuppence love it when daughter Tess visits.  In fact, Tuppy abandons us to sleep with her.  She’s family.”

“She is occasionally.  AND, she comes to visit us.  You don’t have to leave.”

It probably wasn’t the time to tell Tommy we are traveling next month to Tess’s wedding.

About then Tuppence walked in from playing with the Cicada she had brought through the dog door into the bed room.  I asked both of them, “You like Chloe, don’t you?  She’s taken care of you before, and you always go bonkers when she visits.  And you like to go for walks with her dog McDuff.”

Tommy shot back, “She’s nice.  But we don’t have her wrapped around our little toe like we do…………..”

Tuppence snarled and hissed at Tommy, “Shhhh, hush, don’t remind him of that.”

“Look, I said, you didn’t want to go with us to the ranch.  They have three large Great Danes, a Labradoodle, and 17 horses who can step on unwary city dogs.”

Tuppence said, “We smelled all of that on you when you got home.  We knew you’d been dog cheating.”

“No such thing,” I said.  “Believe me, smelling the Great Danes and looking into the maw of a Dane are two different things.”

Tommy puffed up.  “I’m as badass as a Great Dane.”

“Yeah, sure, Tommy.  But see, you’re 27 pounds of ass, good or bad, and Rory alone is 180 pounds of badass.  The math doesn’t work in your favor.  And that doesn’t count the 150 pounds each of Vanna and Tash---plus the horses.”

“Anyway, Posse,” I continued. “ You don’t like car rides.  And that one was 10 hours each way.”

Tuppence turned her back on me.  “Cars take us to the vet.”

“You might be surprised to know,” I said, “that I drive myself to the doctor—that’s what we call a human veterinarian.”

Tommy said, “We’re not talking about your sanity, or lack, here.  We’re talking about you abandoning us to the mercies of nature.”

“What?  You stayed in your own home.  You had the sofa for day sleeping, and the bed for night sleeping.  Chloe gave you breakfast, supper, elevenses, and evening raw hide.  And you had your dog door to come and go to the back yard when you wanted.”

“See,” snapped Tuppence, “you’re just lucky we’re such self-reliant dogs.”

“Self reliant?  Self reliant?  You get food and treats several times a day, brought to you and put in your bowls by a human.  The A/C was running to keep the house cool for you, and I happen to know that Chloe played with you and gave you many scratches every day we were gone.”

“And,” Tuppy quickly interjected, “we had to climb up on the sofa, and the bed, and push the dog door open all by ourselves.”

“You do that when I’m here,“ I said.  (Thinking to myself, they seem to have the same world view as some “self-made men” we know.)

“You’re our back up system.”

So there it is, I’m reduced to a rusting backup generator for a pair of dogs.  For this I went to college?

Tuppy continued, “We voted.  You are not to leave the house again without permission of all residents—all Beagle residents.”

“That’s going to make it kind of tough, “ I said.  “Can’t I even go to the grocery store?”

Tuppence pondered.  Then she asked, “Do you get our dog food at the grocery store?”

“No, I order it from Amazon.  The bags are heavy, and they bring it right to the door.”

“Then, no,” said Tuppence, “you can’t go to the grocery store.  As long as Amazon delivers our food, there’s no need.”

Having exhausted themselves from the effort of negotiating with a lesser being, the Beagle Posse went through the dog door into the yard, peed, came back in, climbed up on the sofa, and went to sleep.  Waiting for the time to self-reliantly walk over to their supper dishes.                                                             

In the Absence of Antelope

I was awakened by the sound of the dog door flap going like playing cards in bicycle spokes.  (You remember those?)

As I lifted my head, there was much yipping, sqeeging and snarling from the back yard, but none of the usual barking.  I could see a highly agitated Tuppence running back and forth through the dog door, obviously trying to enlist human help.  Fearing that maybe Tommy was out there injured, I got up, grabbed my glasses, and flipped on the patio lights.

Tuppence was wailing, “He won’t give me any, he won’t give me any, hewon’tgivemeany.”

I stepped out into the patio summer night and spotted Tommy at the edge of the light pool--kind of in shadow, but he was acting confused, and had something dangling from his mouth.  One of his circles took him a bit more into the light, and it looked like a messy, dirty gray, slobbery tube about 3 inches long.  Tuppence was still whining and pushing at me.

“Tommy, what have you got!?”

“Muffa-peeled-moufs.”

“What?”

“(p’toui) It’s a field mouse.”

I ask, “Tommy, where did you get a field mouse?”

Proudly he says, “I hunted it.”

“Hunted?”

“That’s what we do, we beagles.  We were bred and trained to be mighty hunters.  And I just hunted this trophy field mouse.”

“Hunted?  In our back yard?  Trophy?”

“You won’t let us hunt squirrels or rabbits.  We hunt mostly rodents, you know.”

“Well………”

“And, to what Order do mice belong?”

I sigh.  “The Order Rodentia.”

“Bingo,” says Tommy, reaching down for his prize.

“Wait.  What makes you think you two house hounds are hunters?”

Tuppence jumps in.  “We were born to it.  Just like some fools are born to be satirists.”

I asked, “Since when do hounds know words like, ‘satirist’?”

“We live with you, don’t we?  We can either call you a satirist, or a smartass.  You choose.

“We were born to hunt, and since you don’t keep any antelope in the back yard, we have to stay sharp by bagging mice.”

“You mean to tell me,“  I pondered, “You think beagles hunt antelopes?”

Tommy snarled, “Wolves do.  So we do.”

“But wolves are much larger, faster, and more fierce than you beagles,” I said.

In chorus they replied, “Says who?”

“Well, OK.  But, Tommy, why were you wandering around with that mouse?  I’ve seen you chomp down bigger bites than that in a gulp.  Like that time with the whole slice of pepperoni pizza.”

Tommy picked up his quarry and led us back into the bedroom.

“Tommy!  Don’t you dare jump on the bed with that.  What are you doing?”

Tommy put it down on the carpet and said, “Deciding how to fix it.”

“Fix it?”

“Mmmmhmmmm.  Florentine; Provencal; of maybe just a simple sautee.  You aren’t the only one who likes fancy food, you know.”

Because I have bending and reaching problems, I keep a “getting stick” handy.  During the above gourmet mouse prep discussion, I reached over and got it.  Like brooms, mops, and vacuum sweepers, for some reason, the Beagle Posse is afraid of the stick. So, when Tommy backed off a couple of steps, I was able to grab the mouse with the jaws of the stick.  I carried it into the Loo and flushed it down.

“Hey,” Tommy yelled, “that was MY mouse.”

“Well, it’s gone now,” I said. 

“But,” says Tuppy, “why did you put it in our magic water bowl?”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about that now.  It’s one in the morning.  Get in bed.  Both of you.”

As they jumped on the bed, Tommy said, “Well, OK, but don’t blame us if the field mouse army rushes you in the night.  Sweet dreams, mouse thief.”

Hog and Bev's

On the highway between Blue Eye, Missouri and Green Forest Arkansas was a high-class road house with a peeling plywood sign out by the road.  The sign read, “Hog and Bev’s.  Formerly Hog and Lil’s.”  (Evidently Hog was a bit of a sport.)

Other signs attached to the pole outlined the services of the establishment.  “Beer. Bait. Fax. Fishing Licenses. Tourist Cabins. Bar-B-Que.  (including vegetarian)”  Hog was what you might call, Vertically Integrated.  The place was also on record as having sold the most Falstaff beer in a single month of any outlet in Missouri.  This record was probably tied to the fact that the next five counties in adjoining Arkansas were dry, and sold no adult beverages.

Inside was a wobbly quarter pool table, a juke box, a tiny, splintered dance floor, a couple of Formica tables, and a bar.  Behind the bar were the neon beer signs, a Wonder Bread chalk board with the BBQ menu—Beef Plate.  Pork Plate.  Combo Plate.—and a magic marker sign that read, “Do not use bar for measuring contests.”

Hog was a fine figure of American manhood.  With a belly that was a monument to American beer.  He had once spent six months in the army, including two months as a loading dock worker in Vietnam, until he was sent home and got a medical discharge for a badly infected ingrown toenail.  In memory of his military career, Hog wore camouflage tee shirts that only gapped about three inches above his belt, and referred to beers as “bravos”, utilizing the Army phonetic for “b.”

Bev, on the other hand, as Hog observed, had, “let herself go.”  Of course, what did you expect of a woman who spent 14 or more hours a day in a beer and BBQ bar, keeping a hawk eye on her “sportin” husband (those tourist cabins were just too handy as far as Bev was concerned) ,and eating virtually nothing the bar did not provide.  Bev’s well rounded breakfast generally included a “big red”—a glass of beer with a splash of Snap-e-Tom tomato juice in it-- and a couple of pickled eggs from the jar on the bar.  Also, occasionally, a Penrose pickled sausage from the other jar on the bar, and a handful of stale corn chips from the glass-enclosed Nacho machine—“for roughage.”

Bev’s rapid weight gain after her marriage had long been a study for both the cattle industry, and the Chicago Board of Trade.  One of the regulars put it, “She’s still a half axe handle taller than she is wide.”

Of course, Hog was going nowhere.  Bev had a genuine Ozarks prenuptial agreement.  It wasn’t on paper.  It was hanging in the gun racks of the pickups driven by her three older brothers.  One of them said at the wedding reception, “Hog, you hurt baby girl, and I’m a gonna give you a 12 gauge explanation of your shortcomings.”

Bev did have her dreams.  She dreamed of operating a much higher class food emporium.  Maybe even as fancy as the place up the road that specialized in fried chicken livers and gizzards to go.  A girl has to have something to hold on to.

So, Hog and Bev ran their commercial empire in a fog of marital bliss and a beer haze.

In those days, the music business up in nearby Branson was beginning to grow, and with it, Hog’s place began to get a little more tourist traffic and out of town customers.

One afternoon, in walked two tourist women dressed in what Hog called, “The full Birkenstock Platoon.”  Hog glance up and gave his usual greeting to strangers, “Sit anywhere that don’t look too dirty.”

One of the women came up to the bar.  “First, we’d like to know just what vegetarian bar-b-que you have.”

Hog had near forgot he’d put that on his sign as a joke.  But he recovered quickly.  “Why, all of it ma’am. Everything on the menu.”  With a jerk of his thumb to the black board.  “What’ll you have?  Large plate or small plate?  Oh, by the way, that menu is a bit out of date.  We also have Venison Sausage.”

The woman gasped.  “Sir!  How can you call those meat plates vegetarian?”

Hog says, “Well, we use nothing but grass fed cattle, and corn fed hogs.  And them Bambis eat just grass, acorns, and leaves out in the woods.”

“Huh?”  The hipster lady was beginning to look like one of the deer.

Hog continued, “Grass, corn, acorns, leaves. Them’s all vegetables.  So you see, our Bar-B-Que comes vegetarian right from the source.  We build it out of vegetables from the ground up.”

It was reported that Bev nearly got run over coming back from the laundromat.  A Honda hybrid spewing a rooster tail of gravel and dust blew by her as it flew out of the parking lot and hit Highway 13 headed north.

The BNC

The Beagle Posse had a list.

“We’re gonna need some of those flat fake straw hats, some vests made to look like the American flag, some silly red, white, and blue bow ties, and a whole bunch of signs with names and slogans on them,”  announced Tuppence.

“Plus,” added Tommy, “some extras like police and security guards out in the street to control the press and protestors, and a Hospitality Room with an open bar, shrimp cocktails, and hors d’oeuvre size crab cakes.”

“And a BIG pan of those little barbeque sausages,” drooled Tuppence.

I looked up.  “What are you talking about?”

“Our convention,” explained Tuppence.  “We have it every four years.  The Beagle Party National Convention—the BNC.”

“And just why do you think you beagles need a convention.”

“We’ve got important stuff to do.  We’ve got to get mad about arguments where the two sides aren’t a beagle whisker apart.  We’ve got to call each other ‘false beagles’, and argue what makes a REAL beagle.  We’ve got to write a platform that no one will ever read, and certainly no one will follow.  We’ve got to nominate a top dog.  And, mostly, we’ve got to give long speeches explaining how anyone not with us 100% is evil on the hoof.”

“And balloons, ” added Tuppence, “We’re gonna need a whole Disneyland worth of red, white, and blue balloons.”

“Also,” injected Tommy, “we’ve got to plan where to have the next BNC in four years.  We’ll need to make reservations next week to get a flight.”

“This begins to sound familiar,” I said.

“Well,” said Tuppy, there are a couple of minor groups who’ve copied what we do at the BNC.  By the way, we saw one of those groups on TV last week.  Just what is wrong with being a son of a bitch?”

I had to admit, from a beagle, that was a good question.

“Oh, yeah,” said Tommy, “We’re going to need lots of aspirin and antacids.  And you better get some  for yourself too.”

Beagles on the Case

My grandfather used to call a certain time “the shank of the evening.”  I was never sure exactly what that meant, but have always presumed it meant the long and meaty part. It was after our regular dinner time, except, of course, the Beagle Posse had been fed at their usual 5 o’clock.   It was one of the days when Deborah was scheduled home late, due to singing with her choir.  Waiting for her, so we could eat together, and discuss our day, I was engaged in the vital function of arguing politics with strangers on the internet.

Tommy said, “OK, tell us right now where you put her, and it’ll go easier on you.”

“What?”, I looked up from my keyboard.  “Put who?”

“The food lady. She’s supposed to be home by now.”

“The food lady?  Do you mean Deborah?  I already fed you your dinner.”

Tuppence joined, “You’re the food guy.  She’s the food lady.  We want there to always be a backup beagle feeder in the house.  Now, tell us where you hid the body.”

“What body?”

“The food lady.  She’s due home before now.  Since we haven’t seen her, we presume you’ve done something really bad.”

We need to pause the dialog to explain two things here.  One is that beagles are totally creatures of habit.  They have internal clocks that let them regulate their day, and the days of any humans around.  They know meal times, treat times, walk times, bed times, getting up times, and, of course, coming home times.  Two, ever since we named these two beagles after Agatha Christie detectives (Tommy and Tuppence Beresford), they have considered themselves master sleuths, and are always on the lookout for crimes and dastardly deeds to solve.

Picking up the string.

”Look,” I said, “on two nights every two weeks, Deborah sings with her choir and gets home a couple of hours later than usual.  She’ll be here any time.  There’s nothing for you to worry about. Plus, Deborah is my life and soul, I’d never hurt her.”

“We have sniffed every square inch of the back yard,” said Tommy.  “And we’ve looked for freshly turned dirt.  If you put her back there, you hid her well.”

“You two are skating on thin kibbles here.”

“Through the window, we see lots of fresh-turned dirt in front, we’ll need to check that.  Open the door.”

“Those are the flower gardens, and I am NOT letting you out front. Every time I do, I have to spend hours looking for you.”

Tommy said, “Tuppy, I think she’s in the car trunk.”  Turning my way, he said, “We’ll need a sniff of that.”

“NO!  I am not taking you out to sniff the car.”

“AHA!” shouted Tuppence, “NOW we know where he hid her.  Okay, buddy, were you just waiting for dark to drive her off and dump her?”

“I’ve had enough,” I said. “Deborah is fine.  She’s due home any minute.  I can’t help it if your programmed Canine Calendars can’t grasp that she’s late two days out of every two weeks.  Why do you think, just because you’re called after detectives, that you are capable of crime solving?”

“Well,” sniffed Tuppence, “some humans think just because they are called a nominee they are capable of presidenting.  Now then, can you PROVE she comes home late two out of fourteen nights?”

“How do you dogs know there’s fourteen days in two weeks?”                                                                

“Beagle wisdom,” said Tommy.  “The nose always knows.”

Right then, four beagle ears perked up, and two beagle noses began Hoovering the breeze.  Sure enough, there was the sound of the garage door opener.  Less than a minute later, Deborah walked in. I was instantly ignored as the Posse began its evening Welcome Deborah ritual—bouncing, wagging, yipping, hand licking, running back and forth up and down the hall in excitement.  “You’rehomeyou’rehomeyou’rehome.  He can’t hurt you now.  We’re on the case.”

Deborah must have been confused by the ‘can’t hurt you now’ crack, because she acted like she didn’t hear it.  She and I greeted one another, and she went to the bedroom to change.  The Posse, still barely containing their excitement, followed along.  Tuppence breathlessly explained to her, “We won’t let anything happen to you.  We have our eyes and noses on him.  We’ll know it if he puts you in the back yard.”

I yelled down the hall, “POSSE, ENOUGH OF THIS NONSENSE.”

Tommy yelled back, “We still need to check the car trunk.”

Deborah just began changing clothes and acted like she didn’t hear any of this exchange.  Sometimes, I think Deborah doesn’t think beagles can talk.

You Have the Right to Remain Silent.

Beagles will drive you nuts.

My first clue that something was wrong was when I called, “Posse,” and no dogs came into the room.

The Beagle Posse had spent a horrible, beaglecentric, destructive morning, and I really needed to discuss their behavior with them, and see if we could settle on some consequences.  I had spent most of the morning on an errand to help a friend.  When I got home, from clear out front on the drive I could hear the two yipping, yapping, squeaking, and squealing in the back yard.  Sure signs of varmint pursuit and digging—mining for chipmunks.  I went to get a snack and glass of water, figuring that the sound of the fridge opening, and the crinkle of cookie package wrapping would bring them running. It always does.

They didn’t show.  This must have been a serious Rodent Rooter episode.  Who knew how deep they had dug, or would dig. I called again. They didn’t show up, and the noise continued.  I didn’t know how long it had been going on, but was sure it was beginning to bug at least some of the neighbors. So, I went to the sliding glass doors looking onto the patio and back yard.  There is a 2 foot wide top-to-bottom insert we have put in beside the sliding door.  It has the dog door in it, and is the way the Posse can come and go.  I could see them, or at least their back ends, head down at the corner of the house and the patio, mud flying as they frantically tried to fit themselves down a chipmunk burrow.

I slid open the door and called again.  No response. So, I went to firm voicing of individual names,  “Tommy!  Tuppence! Get in here. “ They finally looked up, and with regretful glances at their work in progress, came through the door.  My mistake.  They were mud to the knees, and proceeded to transfer that to the carpet and my pants legs.  When I slid the door closed, and they thought I was going to trap them inside, they scooted out the dog door before I could put the drop shield in place.  Then, NO amount of calling or coaxing would get them back in.

As the high-pitched prey pursuit sounds continued, I went in and got some dog treats.  I took them to the door, got the dog gate in one hand, treats in the other, and called Tommy and Tuppence.  For a treat they came in reluctantly, and just as I gave it to them, I dropped the gate, locking them indoors.  They were still muddy, there was still going to be a mess to clean up, but they were no longer bothering neighbors, digging up the yard, or terrifying munks.

I returned to my snack.  The Beagle Posse day was just beginning.

They did come in through the kitchen for water, and to totally track a freshly mopped floor with mud.  Then they disappeared.  I figured they were just sulking. Beagles can be right up there with cats on the Sulk-o-meter.

After a period of silence, I unmistakably heard yipping from the back yard again.

This required investigation.

On the way to the bedroom, I discovered SOMEBODY had been ticked off enough about the closed dog door that they had peed in the hall.  Then there was the thoroughly mudded bedroom carpet and bed spread.  And this trail led to the door, where they had torn out the weather stripping between the dog door insert and the sliding door, leaving shredded foam all over, and had then put paw or something into the gap, slid the door open, and gotten out.

So, I went out grabbed collars, drug them in, put the safety lock pole in the sliding door panel, and walked away to cool off.

And that brings us up to the point of having to have the discussion of malfeasance and consequences.

I sat in my favorite chair and called them in.  “Posse,” I said, “Do you have any explanation or excuse for your messes this morning?”

And they sat and looked at me like they couldn’t talk, and didn’t understand a word I was saying.

Now, we all know, the Beagle Posse talks.  There’s about 50 or so posts on this very blog proving that they can.  But, in this instance, they sat mute.  Tuppence cocked her head to the side in the universal dog “trying to figure this out” pose, and Tommy just bent down and began to lick…….beagle parts.  Silence.

“Well, “ I demanded, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Nothing.

“If you don’t say something, I’m going to have to put in the blog how naughty you were, and how you refused to explain yourself. Your fans will be very disappointed.”

Silence.

“You two are in big trouble.”

They looked at each other, then took to the couch to express deep remorse.  And nap.  (See photo above.)

Beagles, Sausages, and Sticks

After a tough quarter hour of barking at phantoms and wind gusts in the back yard, the Posse came in for some shade and a drink of water.  As they walked by me working on my computer, Tommy said, “Don’t you think you’re cutting it a little close?  It’s only 7 days til the big picnic, and you haven’t even started on the snacks yet.”

This was the first I’d heard of any picnic or snacks.  “What’s that, Tommy?”

The biggest annual summer day in the Beagle Year is only a week away, and you are head of the food committee.”

“The food committee?” I asked.  “Who put me on that, and who else is on it?”

“You’re always the food committee,” he said. “And nobody else is on it.  That’s why you better get cracking.”

“Let’s back up here.  What big day?”

“The Picnic,” said Tuppence.

“And why is there a picnic, Tuppy?”

“Because it’s the Big Day.”

“Ok, and what makes it a big day?”

“We just told you,” she said.  “The Picnic.”

I feared an attack of vertigo, so tried to get some clarity.  “What’s this Big Day called?

Tommy said, “It’s Twentyleventh.  It comes every July 21.”

“And why do you celebrate it, Tommy?”

“Because it’s the Big Picnic.”

“OK, I get that.  But why is it the Big Picnic?”

Tuppence audibly sighed, “Because it’s Twentyleventh.”

I could feel the merry-go-round starting under my feet again.  “So, if I understand, Twentyleventh is a holiday because of the Big Picnic, and the Big Picnic is important because it’s on Twentyleventh.  Is that it?”

“Well,” said Tommy, “If you want to put it in silly human terms.  It’s a Beagle thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

“I certainly wouldn’t.  But you know, if you add 11 to 30, you get 31, so why isn’t Twentyleventh on July, 31?”

“Because that would be silly,” he said.  “Now, about the food.  We’re thinking simple this year.  Just some sausage on a stick, some cheeseburgers, and a couple of pounds of cubed cheddar.”

“Just?”

“Yeah, and to make it easier, on the cheeseburgers, you can hold the mustard and ketchup; the lettuce, tomato, and onion, and the bun.”

“Hmmmm.  And what kind of sausage do you want?”

“On a stick.  We can play with the stick later.”

“No, I mean, Italian, Polish, Bratwurst, Cajun, Smoked, foot long wieners, what sausage?” I was curious how far this would go.

Tommy mulled over those choices of sausage and said, “Yes.”

“Yes, to which?”

“Yes to those.”

“That’s a lot of sausage for two beagles, I said.”

“Yep,” added Tuppy, “so you better get double what you planned.  And, if it’s just the same to you, we’d like it all cooked out on the grill.”

I contained, if barely.  “It’s NOT all the same to me.  No, I will not cook on the grill for you, in fact, I don’t plan on getting any of this stuff for you.”

“But you’re in charge of the food.  If we don’t have great food for the Big Picnic, we can’t exchange the traditional greeting, May the Twentylevenesence shine on you.”

“Twentylevenesence?”

“Yeah, the glow a beagle gets after consuming pounds of sausage, cheeseburgers, and cheddar.”

“It seems to me, the Twentylevenesence would be more like the huge cloud of gas you release.”

“That too,” said Tuppence.

“Posse, get out of here.  Not only am I not cooking anything on the grill for you, I’m not getting any of that food for you.”

“But,” begged Tommy, “we’ll be shamed all over Beagledom if we don’t uphold Twentlyleventh.”

I’m a sucker.  “Well,” I said, “maybe I’ll get you a couple of chicken weenies and cut them up.”

I could hear them talking as they walked away.  “See,” said Tuppence. “I told you we could out negotiate him.  You just have to start high enough, then you end up with what you want.”

“Ahhhhhh,” said Tommy, “Chicken weenies.  May the Twentylevenesence shine on you.”