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.”

More on Language from Sgt. Charleston

One of the life benefits of the old drafted army was the diversity.  Draftees came from many ways of life, and all corners of the nation, including Puerto Rico.

As an Ozarker, I had for sure never before run up against anyone like Ricco.  Ricco was New York street corner Italian, with all the Tomato Sauce attitude, swagger, and self-esteem that went with it.  He ran head on into Sgt. Charleston on the second day of Basic.

Sgt. C strode into the barracks.  “Gentlemen’s, I will call your names.  When you hear your names, you will respond with a loud and clear, ‘Heah, SAH-junt.’ Is that clear?”  And he began to call names.  Recruits responded with the requested term, and various levels of enthusiasm.  About 20 names in, he came to Ricco.

“Ricco.”

“Yo.”

Sgt. C didn’t look up from his clipboard.  “Gentlemens, ‘Yo’ is not a word that will be spoken in my Army.  I am SAH-JUNT Charleston.

“I am not, You’

“I am not, ‘Hey’

“I am not, ‘Dude’

"I am not, ‘Man’.”

He looked up.  “I am, ‘SAH-junt.  That is how you will address me.  You will use one of three ways to speak to me.  You will say, ‘Heah, SAH-junt,’ or ‘Yes, SAH-junt,’ or ‘No excuse, SAH-junt.’  You will never damage my ears with a ‘Yo,’ is that clear?  And, above all, you will never call me ‘Sir.’  Sir, is an officer.  I am a Sah-junt, the finest title that can ever be applied to a man.  An officer is a gold-plated brass candy-ass, who struts his congressionally appointed self about, drinks at the O Club, and pretends to run this Army while the sergeants are accomplishing the mission.  And, finally, an officer, from Lieutenant to General, is someone you will address as ‘Sir,’ you will salute, and you will give your ultimate respect.  Is THAT clear?”

“And, if you happen to see a Lieutenant with a map, you will respectfully, and gently, turn the top to North for him.”

“Now.  Ricco.”

“Yo…………sah-junt.”

The Beagle Crown

(This is a tale of events a few weeks ago.)

On a nice Spring morning, Deborah was out putting in tomato plants, and I was on the couch, drinking coffee and facebooking.  Because, if I don’t do those on Saturday, there is no civilization left.

With a thunderous gallop down the hall, the Beagle Posse burst into the room, did a high-speed banked turn on the back of the sofa, across my chest, and zoomed from the room as fast as they’d entered.  While I was still checking to see if the claw marks on my chest were bleeding, they returned for another lap, then two more in rapid succession.

“HEY, YOU IDIOTS, STOP!!”, I explained.

They’d already made it half way down the hall, but turned and reluctantly came back, panting and twitching.  “What?” asked Tommy.  “We gotta train.  We gotta warm up.”

With all the calm of a Vegan at a pig roast, I said, “Tell me what’s going on, and fast.”

“It’s the last day of the Beagle Crown,” panted Tuppence.  “We gotta be ready for the race later today.”

A smart man would have gone back to his coffee and face book arguments.  A smart man.  “What race?” I asked.

With the exasperated sigh of a teacher with a slow pupil, Tuppence said, “The Beaglemont Stakes.”

Then I recalled that this was the day of the running of the Belmont Stakes, and the final day of this year’s Triple Crown pursuit.  “Guys, guys, you have it mixed up.  Today, is the Belmont.  A horse race.  It has nothing to do with beagles.”

“Naw, naw.”  Tommy.  “We don’t care about those dumb horsey folks, and their big sweaty beasts.  The real races are for beagles, and the Beagle Crown.  Those bluegrass bunglers stole our idea and our race names.”

“What???”

“The first race, a few weeks ago, was the Beagletucky Derby.  The final race, Beaglemont, is today.”

“Posse, I’ve never heard of any of this.”

“Are you a beagle?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

“So,” I queried, “the famous horse races are not the main event?”

“Of course not,” explained Tommy, “the beagle races are where the real champions run.  I mean, do we look dumb enough to let a half-starved short little guy sit on our back and whip us for a mile or more?”

“So, who wins the Beagle Crown?”

“Beagles.”

“Yes, which beagles?”

“All beagles.  The pack doesn’t get wrapped up in First and Last.  The pack just runs.”

“Ok,” I said, “but tell me, if the first race was the Beagletucky Derby, and today’s race is the Beaglemont Stakes, what was the name of the middle race?”

“The Freakness,” barked Tommy, as they did a beagle turn up the hallway wall and set off on more laps.

Nuff

The Beagle Posse marched in wearing their “Committee of the Whole” faces.  Tuppence, as usual, taking the role of spokesdog.

“We have decided on a new managing philosophy for human/Beagle relationships.” She announced.

“Oh?”  I let it lay there.

“Yes.  We have a new system called ‘Nuff’ It should be put in place starting now.”

The very tone of this makes me cautious. “And what is this system?  How does it work?”

Tommy now joins.  “It’s easy.  We get whatever we want until we say Nuff’”

“Oh, and how do you decide when to say, Nuff?”

“When we’ve had enough.”

I pondered.  “That sounds to me like a recipe for out of control beagles.”

The Posse began rolling and yipping in dog laughter.

Finally catching her breath, Tuppence wheezed out, “He said ‘beagle’ and ‘control’ in the same sentence.”

“Don’t rub it in,” I grumbled.

“Back to the item on the table,” said Tuppence.  “Can we say the system is now in place?”

“No,“  I said.  “You need to give me examples.”

Tommy held up as paw as if trying to enumerate something on a toe.  “When we get scratches and belly rubs, they don’t stop until we say Nuff.”

“And when will that be?”

“When we’ve had enough.”

“I mean, how long do you think it will take you to get enough?” I asked.

“No one knows,” replied Tuppence.  “Time is a human concept which beagles reject.”

“I guess,” added Tommy, “it could be forever.  Or until we see or think of a squirrel, or it's time for supper.”

“Yeah, Supper.” Interjected Tupp.

“Speaking of supper,” continued Tommy.  “Under the new system we keep getting food until we say Nuff.”

“Woah.  No beagle has ever said Nuff to food.”

“You’re beginning to understand the system,” said Tuppence.

I said, “So, the system is, you get anything you want; as much as you want; for as long as you want.  Is that it?”

“I see nothing wrong with that,” said Tommy.

“You know,” I pondered, “your Nuff system sounds a lot like the Trump system.”

“Tuppence replied,  “But we have better hair, and bark less than he does.”

“Sorry, Posse,” I said, “I don’t think you can count on this system in this house.”

More beagle laughter.  “We didn’t say it was a choice.”

“Well, since I do the scratching, and I buy and serve the kibbles, I think it is my choice.”

They turned to walk back to the bedroom where there was a sunny spot on the carpet.  “We’ll give you some time to get used to the idea.  We’re going to nap.”

“How long?” I asked.

“Til we’ve napped Nuff,” said Tuppence.

“Or till we hear you serve supper,” added Tommy.

“Yeah,” yawned Tuppence.  “Supper.”