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.”