The Attack of the Manhole People

The Beagle Posse spent all of yesterday at Defcon 27; full RedScarletSreamingApocalypse alert.

Starting early in the morning, monsters and their human minions began doing work and repairs on a manhole cover in the middle of the street in front of our house. In full view through Front Window Beagle TV. Each arrival and departure required immediate and full-throated canine response in order to prevent disaster.

The invasion began with the arrival of a crew truck which began disgorging shovel-wielding shock troops. Tommy issued the warning aroos them be, keeping them beyond the driveway border. Just about the time the defense was safely reduced to occasional admonitory growls, the first of the true monsters arrived on the battlefield.

This was what I thought I recognized as a basic backhoe on a trailer. Tommy quickly informed me of my error. “NO!! That is a “Totaltoothed Reachmouth.” They can grab you from 10 feet away, and they keep a human captive in a small cage on their back so they can suck out his brain to power their soulless actions.”

Then we all noticed that this particular machine was fitted with a six-foot diameter circle drill to bore through the street and form a work space around the manhole.

Monster barking had to take a pause while the Posse argued as to the exact function of this particular horror. Tommy maintaining that it was a “San Andreas Magma Finder,” which would open a hole down to a reservoir of molten lava, unleashing the flow on the neighborhood and incinerating us all.

Tuppence was adamant that the device was a “Devil's Bore China Sucker,” which would open a portal all of the way through the earth, allowing all of us to be instantly sucked through to China, where, as it happens, they EAT dogs.

They could not fully agree on the monster's identity, but agreed that only very loud beagle threats could hold it at bay and ensure our safety. They began to apply that remedy.

Following the retreat of this abomination, the ground assault began with the deployment of the shovel and sledge hammer Rangers. As they enlarged the street opening, they would unleash a flurry of slamming and scraping sounds. These sounds required counter-battery fire from the Posse, loosing equivalent noise from “our” side of the battle lines. After flurries of work, the shovels and hammers would fall silent, and shortly after, the barking would too, as the Posse became convinced that they, and they alone, had brought peace to the street.

The Posse curled up on couch pillows for a well-deserved nap, having just preserved home, neighborhood, and civilization as we know it.

As public works employees, also known as “invading mongol hordes,” will, the workers soon went back to their task, raising the now even angrier beagles from their just commenced naps. And the beagles flung themselves back at their loud duties.

And so it went through several cycles of hammers, shovels, and barks; and hammering barks, and barking shovels.

Then, roaring, clanking down the street approached the next smoke-breathing monster. It looked to me exactly like a Caterpillar tracked front end loader. The posse lashed me for my lack of vision, and lashed the monster for its approach. As Tuppy explained, what we were facing was nothing less that an evil reincarnation of a Triceratops, a beast widely known in beagle communities as a “Roar Throating, Boulder Eating, Chihuahua Squasher.” This fearsome beast from the darkest pits of the past was unstoppable by any weapon known to mere humans, and vulnerable only to the fearsome sound of the beagle voice. And the Posse flung themselves once more into the breech. They launched volleys of barking at the creature as it used its fearsome giant mouth to “clang, clang, rang a dang” attempting to pry the old manhole cover from its fitting. Having accomplished that, and holding the cover firmly in its teeth, the beagle defense drove it into retreat down the street, still carrying its cast iron prize.

BUT....no sooner was there a beagle sigh of relief than the Saurian foe made another charge at them, clenching a replacement iron disk in its maw. The beagle barking caused it to fling that disk onto the pavement beside the hole, and retreat once again.

We began to hear what Tommy told me were “native battle cries” as the ground troops in the street discussed strategy for the remainder of Operation Enduring Hole in the Street.

After the attacking force had levered the lid back in place, the street heard the roar of a yet larger colossus. Slowly lumbering up, its fearsome black trunk extended for battle, came the monstrosity I was smart enough to not identify as a concrete truck. Soon enough, Tommy identified it as a “Rattle Spin Roar Rock Spitter,” and began building yet another sound wall. Tommy yelled, “My DOG, Tuppy, it's vomiting up its gray guts all over the street.” It was, but beagle action soon drove it off in retreat, with its dripping nose appendage fighting a rear guard action.

Some mopping up, shoveling in, and smoothing by the beast's minions ended the day's assault, and left the street quiet--with only traffic cones marking the scene of the recent carnage.

The Posse began to complain to me that they had been required to spend nearly the entire day in defense of me and my possessions, and had thus been robbed of their required quantity of naps. They determined that only extra food that evening, and a few days of extra treats, could possibly compensate them for their patriotic sacrifices.

I tried to explain that we had been in no danger, but Tommy shushed me, and told me only beagles were qualified to properly perceive danger. As they wearily moved off for a pre-supper nap on our bed, Tuppence explained, “You're just lucky we aren't paranoid alarmists.”