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.”