A Toad Suck Christmas

Christmas dawned frosty and clear over Toad Suck, Arkansas.  Twenty-something Fahrenheit along the banks of the Arkansas River.  The Beagle Posse was snuggled with their humans in the travel trailer, and the propane heater chugged along keeping everyone toasty.  It had been a beautiful starry night, with the mournful sound of Towboat horns as they and their barge loads worked through the locks on the other side of the river—about ¾ mile away. Still, Tommy was pleading his case.

“You told me we moved to Texas so I wouldn't have to go out in the cold to pee anymore.”

“No,” I said,”I told you it wouldn’t be as cold as often.  And we aren’t in Texas right now.  So, let's go on out, it’s clear, sunny, no wind, and you’ll be finished and back on the settee before you know it.”

“Oh, I’ll know it,” he yipped.  “Last night, you knew it would be so cold that you unhooked the water hose from the camper.  I watched out the window.”

“Yes, because I didn’t want a burst hose, or damage to the RV plumbing.”

“Well, this beagle ain’t contemplating any damage to his plumbing either.”  (Since we moved to Texas, Tommy’s language has acquired more ‘ain’ts’, ‘reckons’ and ‘fixin’ tos.’) “Take me back to Texas and I’ll go out.”

“Tommy, it’s 9 hours to Texas.”

“I’ll hold it.”

“I doubt that. You used 4 rest stops on the way up here.”

“Yeah,” Tommy replied, “the trees looked thirsty. And 3 of the stops were in Texas. Hook up and let’s get going.”

Concepts of time and distance are not firm with Beagles.  Plus, since we haven’t owned this trailer for long, and this is only the second trip in it with the Posse, they are still working hard at finding all of the possible soft places to nap on the settee and bunks.  Their first order of business, obviously, having been to ascertain the onload of the kibble.

“WAIT!” Tommy suddenly yelped.  “I hear them.  They’re here.  Come on, come on, come on.”  And then Tuppence joined in the chorus.  It took me a while to figure out that this was all because they’d either heard or smelled that Toad Suck Park had squirrels.

All hesitance about exiting the trailer evaporated into the elemental urge to pursue the Order Rodentia.

The Tinkle Trip Tirade having ended, we all settled down into this year’s Christmas routine.  Wonderful days with the family at my sister’s house (6 miles from the Sucking Toads), and cozy cold evenings tucked up with just us and the Posse in the trailer under starlit skies, beside one of the nation’s mighty rivers.

This, however, was certainly not to be a routine Yule.  For in the middle of the night of the 25^th, I suddenly woke, grabbing a wall, as I sensed the trailer violently tumbling end to end. And it tumbled, and tumbled, and tumbled as my stomach began to protest into my throat.

It turned out, the trailer was not tumbling a bit, but you could not convince my inner ear of that fact.  Some malevolent soul had given me a whole Christmas Stocking full of Vertigo.  And I was not thankful for the gift.

It was just dawn, and our daughter and son in law were staying with my sister.  We called them to come help by taking charge of the Beagle Posse while Deborah got me to the ER.

A couple of things were discovered by the medicos.  Nothing immediately life threatening.  (However, part of the reason we moved so fast was that this kind of vertiginous feeling was exactly how my stroke had started in 2004, and it scared me so bad I forgot Trump was president.)

I did have vertigo, which I amply demonstrated to the ER doc by throwing up all over his scrubs and Nikes when he did that head turning, twisting maneuver they do to loosen your inner ear crystals.  But they also discovered that part of my light headedness was due to the fact that my heart rate was down to about 40 beats per minute.  The good doctor said that this was probably because I needed to reduce my dose of Beta Blocker, and they shot me up with some meds to bring my pulse back to around 70.  

Within the hour, I was free and out the ER door.  Still not 100%, but up to perhaps 67½%--they had taken good care of me and treated me both kindly and well.  (Follow up, of course with my own doctor this week.)

But I digress.  We were talking about Beagles and small travel trailers.  The trailer, by the way, is still to be named.  I’m leaning toward “The Starship Beagleprise,” but I don’t think Deborah is.

Night time in the trailer.  Heater warming away, hearts warm from Christmas and health fixes.  Deborah and I were snuggled in blankets with Tuppence already snuggled under the covers and way down at our feet.  Tommy was on the floor, rocking back and forth like a high jumper preparing for his run—it’s how Tommy psyches himself when deciding where to jump onto a bed or a couch.

Tommy is the athlete member of the Posse.  He can easily leap aboard any bed or couch, even if needing to jump over a human or Tuppence in the process.  BUT—and it is a huge but—Tuppence uses Beagle mind force to control both the trajectory and landing points of any leaps he makes to furniture where she is already resident.  We’re not sure just how she communicates it to him, or what consequences may later be extracted for him failing to choose an acceptable flight plan, but he must be, and is, careful to never overfly her prone body, or even come too close to her border protection zone.  She puts up a canine force field that could double as a wall on any border of the country.

Tommy chooses his route and leaps.  At the same time, I am nearly knocked over by aroma.  The trailer takes on the atmosphere of a Vietnam War latrine.  I swear the Formica on the countertop begins to curl.

“Tommy!” I yell. “We just walked you.  Dammit, you know the trailer is like the house, you don’t deposit those packages in here.”

Landing and curling up to snooze, Tommy says, “I didn’t deposit anything.”

“I can smell it.  Now, I’ve got to get up and pick it off the floor.  You’re in big trouble.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then what do I smell?”

“Jet Assisted Take Off,” mumbles Tommy, as he stretches.

From under the covers we hear Tuppence say, “He’s been working on that.”

Tommy says, “Bottom-centered gaseous propulsion to make my leaps longer.  Kind of like an after burner.  I read about it.”

“Well,” I growled, “my eyes are burning.  Don’t do that again. I don’t think you need the extra thrust.”

“It’s like a carrier take off,” he says, “a real thrill.”

“I’m not thrilled, Tommy.  And wait, you can’t read.”

From under the covers we hear Tuppence once more.  “Tommy, before next time……”

“Yeah,” he asks cautiously.  As explained, he recognizes her authority, not ours.

“Before next time, “ Tuppy says, “eat more peppermint.”

"I don't want to hear about his reputation."

I promised this tale to a friend, and decided to just make a blog post of it. 

In the late 1970s, the ad agency I worked for in Houston had Gulf Oil as a client.  One of our jobs was to help write, produce, and stage their annual sales meeting.  This was a big deal.  There were several hundred in their sales force, and oil was at $40 a barrel.  Cost was, basically, no object.

One of the Gulf executives was enamored of a popular comedian of the time, Professor Irwin Corey, “The world’s foremost authority,” and asked that we contract with him to provide entertainment one evening.

The agency Account Manager for Gulf Oil was a control freak, jug-headed German named Max.  He had a marketing degree from Oklahoma State University.  He’d gone to college on a football scholarship, and his primary skill was being able to speak “Oil Field.”  When he relayed the client’s request, I said, “Max, I think that guy has a reputation for being pretty flakey.”

Max snarled, “I don’t want to hear about his reputation.  I want to hear that you have him booked.”

The way you did things like that in those pre-internet days was that you contacted the Union and found out the name of the performer’s agent; then contacted the agent.  We tried SAG/Aftra, no record.  We tried Actor’s Equity, no record. Finally I remembered the most obscure of the performers unions, AGVA (American Guild of Variety Artists.) This was the union for the Rockettes, Las Vegas show girls, circus performers, and strippers.  Called them.  After a long while, the rep came back on the phone and said, “Yeah, he’s ours, but he doesn’t have an agent, here’s a phone number.”

Corey answered the phone himself.  I explained the call, and said, “Is there an agent I should negotiate with?”  He blew up.  “Agent’s rob you.”

I got the feeling he was about to slam down the phone so quickly said, “Fine, fine.  Let’s make a deal.”  And went on to explain the date of the gig, 6 months out, and that it was in Atlanta—the site of that year’s meeting.

He said, “I don’t book that far out.  Call me back.”.

I yelled, “Wait! Our client demands we have this all nailed down within the next two weeks.”

He said, “How much you paying?”

I had a budget of $15,000 plus expenses, but was not a negotiating novice.  I said, “What’s your rate?”

He said, “I won’t take a penny less than $10,000, plus First Class Airfare.”

I agreed, and said, “Now, about…..”

He said, “Wait, dammit.  That’s $10,000 cash, no bill bigger than a twenty, in a brown, not black, briefcase, on the bed in my hotel room when I arrive.  Handle pointed toward the door.  And you send me the airplane ticket to my post office box.  I don’t give out my address.”

“OK.”

“And my hotel room,” he said, “must be on the 6^th floor or lower.  Any higher, I walk.  And I keep the money.”

I said, “The views are better from higher rooms.”

He said, “Idiot, Fire Department Hook and Ladder trucks can’t reach above the sixth floor.  I want to be rescued when the fire starts.”

“Fire?” I asked.

“Lots of times.” He replied.

“OK.  Now, Mr. Corey,…..”

“Professor,” he interrupted.

“OK, professor, what are your requirements for your dressing room?”

“I won’t use a dressing room.  Don’t trust ‘em.  I’ll come dressed.  They trap you in dressing rooms.”

“OK.  And do you have a list of music and light cues?”

“I’ll see if I trust them when I get there.”

So, the deal was struck.

We got to Atlanta, got a briefcase for $9.99 from an office supply store, and went to a bank where one of the Gulf biggies had a friend who would agree to hand over $10,000 cash in small bills.  This particular Gulf guy was one of my favorites.  An oil executive who actually had a sense of humor.  So, as we’re putting the banded bills into the briefcase, the banker says, “What do you need this for?”

The Gulf guy picks up the case, says, “If you’re a loyal American, you won’t ask,” and walks out of the bank.

We took the money to the fifth floor hotel room, put it on the bed, and waited for the “talent” to arrive. We had sent a limo to the airport to meet the flight.

The limo driver calls from the airport and says that Corey never showed.

Luckily, before we could panic, we get a call from the hotel front desk that a bum was in the lobby making a scene and yelling that we were supposed to meet him.  Yep.  Sure enough.

It turns out, he had cashed the First Class ticket, and ridden Greyhound from NY to Atlanta.  I asked him about it, and he said, “Kid, stay off of airplanes.  They have bankers on ‘em.”

At the theater, we tried to show him his dressing room, and he just said, “You’re not trapping me.” He walked on to the stage and looked around nodding.  I said, “About your light cues..”

He said, “Yeah, light the stage for me.” And refused to elaborate.

I said, “If you aren’t in your dressing room, how will we find you when it’s time for your act?”

He said, “You just have them announce me.  That’s all you got to worry about.”

So, an evening of boring corporate speeches from the stage, then time for the comic, who had not been seen since afternoon, and could not be found back stage.  Control freak Max was showing signs of a classic stress breakdown.  I soothed him by saying, “You told me you didn’t want to hear about his reputation.”

With fingers crossed, and breath held, we had the MC introduce the comedian.

He comes climbing onto the stage from the orchestra pit.  He then does about 40 minutes of the funniest material I have ever heard, and walks off stage Right into the back stage darkness.  And, I guess, leaves, because we never saw him again.

Oh You Kibble Pickers

Free Range chickens show up at the bird feeders.

Someone made the mistake of leaving a magazine where the Beagle Posse could read it. It was evidently open to pages about “More natural diets.”  Stuff like the “Raw Food Movement,” “Probiotics,” “Paleo Diet.”  (You might follow one of those, so I won’t delve into that.  Just the beagle take away.)

Tuppence pushed my laptop closed and said, “We need to talk to you about the ingredientianal compositional paradigm of our daily caloric intake.”

“Ingredientianal?” I asked.

“Yes, the ecologialistically ultimated sourceing and processatory functions employed in getting our nourishment to supper bowl.”

I realized we had traveled to the very borders of jargon and magazine-diet-fad-speak land. “First of all, a magazine is a horrible place to get advice on your food.   They’ve pushed everything from Grapefruit Diets to Bone Broth and dinosaur livers as the perfect meal plan.  Second, even if a jargon spouting Community College journalism dropout WAS a good source for food information, the magazine is talking about human diets, not dog meals.”

Tommy began to steam a little. “You mean you don’t eat what you feed us?”

“Tommy, you know we don’t.  You beg for bites of mine every time I have a meal or snack.”

“But not the chicken bones.”

“No, I won’t give you chicken bones.  But what’s this all about, don’t you like the kibbles we feed you?”

“Oh, we like ‘em.  Can we have some now?”

“I thought you wanted to talk about ingredientianal composition.”

“Beagle rule 1,” said Tuppence, “Ask for food every chance you get.”

“And I know,” I said, “you follow that rule to the letter.”

“Not to the letter, to the supper bowl. Now, it says on the bag that there’s chicken and lamb in our food.”

“Yes.”

“What part of the chicken does a kibble come from?” asked Tommy.

“And why are chicken kibbles and lamb kibbles the same size?” said Tuppence.

“Hmmmm,” I said, “I can see a lot of beagle thought has been going on.  Well, on your average hen, the kibble is located just behind the nugget. I think you’d have to ask a Scotsman or a New Zealander about where sheep kibbles are.”

Tommy was still pressing. “The food writer said we should know where all of our food comes from, and how it’s handled.  What steps do you take to serve us fresh kibbles?”


“First, Tommy, I don’t think ‘fresh’ and ‘kibble’ work together. As to handling your food, I scoop it out of the bag and into your bowls with a measuring cup, add the very freshest tap water from the kitchen sink, then try to set it on the floor before you knock it out of my hand.”

Tuppence had a definite look of suspicion on her brow.  “OK, chicken and lamb kibbles you’ve explained, but there’s lots of other stuff.  Where do those other kibbles all come from.”

I ran a quick calculation of beagle brains and beagle attention span and said, “That’s easy.  Kibble trees.  All the rest of them grow on kibble trees. Most are grown in kibble orchards these days, and picked by migrant kibble crews, though there are a few brave adventurers who travel into the mountains in search of wild kibbles.”

“Ummm, yes, yes,” said both dogs.

“And,” I said, “If we  build a border wall, and keep out a bunch of agricultural workers, there might not be enough kibble pickers and packers.  You can see what a problem that would be.  Kibbles just sadly falling from the untended trees, and rotting on the ground.”

Worried looks on both dogs. I knew I’d dodge another round robin discussion.

“Oh, yes, yes,” they mused as they turned to go nap and ponder.  “Big problem.  Really Bigly. Sad.”

The honest crooked major.

(This Vietnam tale may not be as outright funny as some of the others. It probably won’t be the very last VN story I post, but probably will be the final chapter when I gather them all into a book. With the current Burns broadcasts on PBS, this seems like a good time to talk about a certain Major.)

It was nearing the end of Major Shoat’s tour, and he was morose.  First, because there would be an audit of the supplies in the warehouse when he left, and he wasn’t sure he’d really done enough to fudge all the records.  You can only cover up so much with the stamp, “Combat Loss.”  Second, it was obvious that he was enough of a piker he was not going to get that promotion to Lt. Col. before he left Vietnam, and that meant he would probably never get it, so his military career and his “secondary” source of income were both coming to a close.

It doesn’t really matter that this major wasn’t a very good officer.  I wasn’t in his chain of command, and therefore his lacks were of no real threat to me.  We met this ROTC Wonder because of our Company Scrounger, Mike Pilchuck.  (If you don’t recall the story about Sp. Pilchuck, see Turning Tent Pegs Into Lobster Tails)It was 1970, post Tet, and even the career officers knew the war was finished, and that we were only still stuck there fighting because the politicians didn’t mind spending a few more of our lives while they tried to figure out a way to pull out of S. E. Asia and still get re-elected.

Pilchuck was a scrounger, Maj. Shoat was a crooked supply officer, so, of course, there was shared utility.  Also, Pilchuck ran a Thursday night “game night” in our hooch—the games consisting of poker and craps-- and the major was a compulsive gambler. The Army has strict non-fraternization rules for Enlisted Men and Officers, but the major wasn’t about to turn himself in, and we welcomed the presence of a bad poker player with officer-level money into the game.  He made regular unintentional contributions to our beer fund. This is not just a guy who would draw to an inside straight, this was a guy who would bet a pocket 3-5.  We all thought of him as an old man.  He was probably 34.  He wasn’t really stupid.  Just driven by private demons, and blind in some areas.  What brains he had kept him from being booted out of the Army.

Our base was on the northern edge of the Mekong Delta, only about 14 miles from Saigon, down a highway that was passable during daylight hours. (A Newbie once ask our platoon sergeant how much territory the VC controlled around our post.  Sarge said, “During the day, just about all of it.  At night, all of it.”)  There were enough APCs, armed jeeps, escorted truck convoys and such on the highway in the day that you could get to and from Saigon ok if you never slowed down or left the pavement.  Heaven help you if you had a break down. Being Supply (S-4) the major had a jeep, and he had a weakness for the cheap drinks and cheap “companionship” found in the B-Girl bars and “Turkish Baths” up and down Saigon’s famous Tu Do Street. Hiding out from work was called “Ghosting,” and Major Shoat was also a major ghost.  He managed to spend more time in the Tu Do clubs than at his job.  Of course, his work got done.  The sergeants did it whether he was on base or not.

By now, the major wasn’t doing much in the clubs other than power drinking. Spending the afternoon at the end of the bar, waving the girls away and knocking back watered down black market booze. The vision of drunken jeep races and Moped tag with the Viet civilians weaving in and out on the two lane back up the highway as he rushed to get back on base before sundown is not pleasant.  Sundown held both the danger of the VC, and much more intense questioning by the MPs manning the post gate.

There were always Vietnamese boys hanging around these bars.  They shined boots, ran errands, dealt small amounts of pot and heroin, touted girls, and generally scrambled to get a few Piasters a day.  They also listened, because, of course, most were at least part time spies for the VC.  These kids looked 10 or 12, but could have been any age up to 17 or so.  For $1 MPC (Military Payment Certificate-the funny money GIs were paid during the war to try to keep real green backs out of the hands of the communists) one of these boys would sell you a perfectly sealed pack of Park Lane cigarettes.  Cellophane, tax stamp, foil, and all.  Inside, would be 20 perfectly packed filter-tipped joints of Uncle Ho’s finest herb.

This afternoon a persistent “boy san” was bugging Shoat.  Either he hadn’t made much that day, or saw the drunk officer as an easy mark.  He pushed dope, he pushed drinks, he touted the various contortions and hand/mouth skills of the girls in the booths.  The major was having none of it.  He pushed the boy away and said, “Di Di Mao,” get away, you VC.”

The kid jumped back and protested, “No. No. Sao.  No VC.”

“Yeah, you VC.”

“No, GI. No VC. Hate VC. No VC.”

The major then looked through bleary eyes and said, “Well, kid, if you ain’t VC, you better hurry and join up, ‘cause I think Charlie’s got this one in the bag.”

THE SAINT VACCINATION MEDAL.

The Beagle Posse was restless.   At least twice in the hour they had roused from their couch naps and circled a couple of times before sighing and sinking down for more sleep.  One time, Tuppence even stretched and yawned during the interval.  They even disturbed MY nap.

“OK, dogs.  Wake up and tell me what’s going on.”

“Later,” mumbled Tuppence.

Even the faintest chirrup of a squirrel, or the sound of a single food crumb hitting the kitchen floor will bring them instantly awake.  In the first instance, not only awake, but madly barking, bugling, and slamming through the dog door in full cry. But unless there is food or walkies involved, it is taken as a great imposition for any human to suggest a break in a nap.  Naps are a beagle sacrament.  As are tree peeing, butt sniffing, and garbage snarfing.

Not to be deterred, I said, “Wow, look at that lizard.”

“Whut? Huh? Where?  I’ll get him. No, he’s mine.”

“See,” I said, you’re awake. Now, what’s flashing through those ummmmm, some call them ‘brains’?”

Tommy snorted, “Well, you moved us to Texas.  What do you expect?”

“We moved you to a nice apartment, right near a great dog park, in a warm, friendly city—a city, I might add, Tommy, that doesn’t get that ‘weenie deep’ snow you snarled and complained about in Indiana.”

“A place with Chupacabras,” said Tommy. “Even you should be worried.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Of course there is, “insisted Tommy.  “If they weren’t real, there wouldn’t be a name for them.”

Now, there, I thought, is as perfect an example of beagle logic as has ever been constructed. But, I tried again to reason.  “No, there isn’t.  It’s a legend, made up tales about an animal no one has ever really seen.  I mean, really, ‘goat sucker?”  That’s what ‘chupacabra’ means, Tommy. The same root as you see on those displays of candy suckers by the cash register in Mexican restaurants, ‘Chupachups’—suckers.”

“And when,” Tommy demanded, “was the last time you took us to a restaurant?”

“Don’t change the subject,” I said. “Besides, you basically eat every meal in a restaurant.  You bark an order; somebody serves you food; you eat it and walk away; somebody cleans up your dishes.  And you don’t even pick up the check. Now, there is no night-stalking monster that sucks goat blood.  And you aren’t a goat anyway.”

Tommy snapped, “We’re built lower than goats.  Easier to get to.”

“Don’t interrupt.  As I was saying, the Chupacabra isn’t even an OLD legend.  The first mention anyone can find is in Puerto Rico in 1995, and as described then, it resembled the monster in a recently published science fiction book.  Most researchers think the name was made up by a Puerto Rican comedian.”  (ed. note:  This is all true, you can check Google or another search engine.)

Tommy turned his back.  “Well, I guess you’ll believe it when the fiend fangs your ass and sucks out a pint or two.”

I noticed Tuppence wasn’t saying much in this discussion.  “Tupp, girl, what do you think?”

She stopped licking her parts long enough to say, “Well, mostly my nap was disturbed by Tommy.  I’m not worried about the Sucker.  I have my medal.”

“What medal?”

“My Saint Vaccination medal.  When you put it round my neck you said, ‘There, you’re protected.’  I feel pretty safe. And I get a fresh, recharged one every year.”

“Tommy has one too,” I said.  “How come he’s scared?”

“Besides that he’s a little fraidy cat weenie?” asked Tuppence. “Well, he doesn’t believe in Saint Vaccination and Vaccinationism.  Tommy is a Dogtheist.”

“Is that like a canine atheist?”

“No,” Tommy turned back around. “It means I believe in Dog Dieties.  You know, Sirius, the Dog Star, and the constellation Canus Major.  They’re right there.  Easy to see.”

“Well,” I pondered, “then why are you afraid of the Chupacabra? Don’t you think your gods will protect you?”

“Not their job,” said Tommy.  “Besides, STAR, CONSTELLATION.  Duh. They’re a long, long way off. Like, further than Indiana.”

I chose not to get into a discussion of celestial distance with an animal who thinks rodent is a delicacy. “And that’s what you call your religion, is it?”

Tuppence, ever philosophical, leapt to Tommy’s defense.  “Hey, 4,300 plus human religions in the world—with gods no one has ever seen, and you question Tommy?  That star is right up there to look at every night.  You read Heinlein, don’t you?”

And I remembered. “One man’s religion is another man’s belly laugh.”—Robert A. Heinlein.

Of course, I’m not sure if old Bob ever gave much thought to beagle theology.  I see him as more of an Irish Setter kind of guy.

Posse Support Dogs.

Tuppence was sitting on the couch, examining a left fore claw.  “You need to get to work getting us registered.”

I said, “Tupp, you are, registered.  You’re vaccinated; I paid the license tax; you have a tag, and everything.”

“No, you need to get us registered for our jobs, and get us some of those ‘Don’t mess with the dog’ vests.  Those vests are cool.”

Enlightenment.  “Oh, you mean like service dog vests.  But you guys aren’t service dogs.”

“Well, we aren’t yet, because you have been too lazy to register us.”

“Service dogs have jobs.  Like helping blind people, and deaf people, and veterans with PTSD, and people with epilepsy.  They do wonderful work.  They’re trained.  All you do is sleep, bark at squirrels and UPS drivers, and forget the command to ‘sit and stay.’”

Tommy jumps in.  “We’re so good at our job that you don’t even notice.”

“Yeah,” I said, ”it’s pretty invisible.  Sort of like a Right Fielder for the Baltimore Orioles.”

Tommy ignored me and went on, “We’re more like Emotional Support dogs.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “In reverse.  You demand that we emotionally support you, scratching tummies on demand and such.”

They both snorted.  But not with any humor.

I have evidently never learned my lesson about trying to explain to beagles.  I started.  “Guys, real Service Dogs are great and wonderful animals.  They give people lives they might not otherwise be able to live.  It’s not a matter of just registering.  It is a matter of training and doing.”

“So,” said Tuppence, “you gonna get the registering done or not?  Or do we have to hack your Google Chrome again.”

This worried me.  The last time they tried to use my computer, they ended up wiping out the BIOS, but only after ordering 15 Salad Shooters.  And they don’t eat salad.  “No, no.  Let’s just talk this through and see if there is anything or anyplace you can be registered.”  (When you’re going to be nibbled to death anyway, it’s best to surrender early.)  “What is the service you perform?”

Tuppence replied, “We said it’s kind of ‘emotional support’.  We’re Humility Support dogs.”

“What?”

“We keep you from getting a big head.  Now, order our vests.”

“I want mine in purple,” said Tommy.

“Pink, with mink, for the Lady,” said Tuppence.

I kind of blew up.  “I can’t believe I’m dumb enough to listen and put up with this.”

“See,” said Tuppence, “We’re helping you stay humble.  No need to thank us.”

The day of the dark, barn cats, frogs, and the mooning of the Beagle Posse.

In late August, the Beagle Posse took its longest road trip ever.  (Even including the move from Indiana to Texas, which is a subject for another tale entirely.)  We traveled from San Antonio to Hebron, Nebraska to be in the path of totality for the Solar Eclipse. 

Our destination was the horse and Great Dane farm where my wife’s brother lives with his lovely wife.  There they breed both hunter-jumper horses, and very large Euro Great Danes.  Resident are 14 horses and 4 dogs that are as big as ponies—plus a couple of barn cats.  More about one of the cats later.  It was a perfect opportunity for a family visit and  once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event, and it was only 4 states away.  So, tooth brushes, Amazon Eclipse Glasses, and beagles in hand, we set off.

A couple of the Danes had previously visited our house in Indianapolis, and, frankly, the Posse was not all that interested in a renewed encounter with 180 pound dogs—and they had no idea what horses were.

Five days later, upon arrival home, Tommy exulted, “I peed on 15 Rest Stops.  A RECORD!”

The 50 acre farm/ranch in Nebraska is horse heaven.  Large, lush alfalfa pastures, a cozy barn, and dogs that protect them from all harm.  Even the resident coyotes will not mess with a pack that adds up to about 800 lbs of dog—so the foals are safe.

Every beagle owner knows, the first rule of beagle is that they are not off-leash dogs.  When their nose gets on a scent, no amount of dog training, calling, whistling, or even treat offering, will turn them back.  You just have to hope they get tired and hungry before they get road hit.  However, the first couple of days on the farm, they stuck close to the Danes, and didn’t get out of sight of the house, so we decided they could do a bit of exploring.  The only nearby road was a gravel farm road.

A great gray cat sat quietly in the shade of a bush just outside the barn door.  These cats are basically feral, living among the stomping horse hooves, the Great Dane Consortium (well, not a “posse”, after all), and living off the mice, rats, and pigeons who come to try and feed on the horse grain.

Tommy ran up to the large gray tabby barking and dancing.  The tabby barely looked up.  Tommy stuck his head under the bush and demanded the cat run to be chased.  (Wise Tuppence saw the future and hung pretty far back.) We’re not positive what happened under the bush, but Tommy came out yelping and ran the full hundred yards back to the door of the house begging to be let inside and protected. He raced clear in to the couch and cowered in the corner. 

I sat with him checked that he needed no stitches, and said, “What did the Barn Cat say to you, Tommy?”

“D’n wanna play.”

“And what did you learn about farm cats?”

Very hangdog, he said, “Badass.”

Tuppence strolled by and observed, “Fool,” and kept on walking.

Even the Great Danes appeared to look at Tommy as some kind of short bus dog.

When the day of the eclipse came, we humans placed a semi-circle of lawn chairs out, and settled in as all dogs joined us.  We must have looked like a motley audience for a 1950s 3D movie—perhaps “Creature from the Black Lagoon”—as we all stared off into the breaking clouds, wearing our cardboard framed sun looking specs.

Like most natural processes, an eclipse is not a fast event.  Or, to put it in the terms of ancient man, the dragon does not eat the sun in one bite. So, as the first sliver of moon covered the sun, we oohed, ahhed, and applauded.  And drank wine, talked family gossip, and waited for more.  It would be a couple of hours before we discovered the possibilities the Posse saw in an astronomical event.

Even when the sun was half obscured, we didn’t sense much dimming of the light.  Such is the remarkable adaptability of the human eye.  However, at about ¾ obscured we noticed the sounds of twilight bugs in the trees, and noted evening bug-hunter birds, like the barn swallows, begin to fly about.  

At totality, the world did darken.  Not to full night black, mind you, but to something approaching the look of a cloudless full-moon night.  Not being superstitious fools, or some other kinds of science deniers, we, of course, knew the sun would be right back, so we didn’t declare the Rapture, scream about Gay lifestyles, or look around for sacrificial virgins or goats.

As light returned to the farmstead, we began to pick up plastic wine cups, lawn chairs, napkins and other astronomical necessities and prepare to move back to air conditioning.  We had been at the sky watching for a bit over an hour, and when last in the light had felt sure we were surrounded by all the animal contingent. We discovered we had only Great Danes in the canine census.  No Beagle Posse members in evidence.

When called, Tommy appeared, coming up the East draw, through the waist deep hay, from the tree grove down by the pond.  But, and this is most unusual, he was alone.  We all continued calling Tuppence.  We could see that Tommy was wet from the belly down, but we didn’t think much of it as it had rained earlier in the day, and the hay was wet.  Then, as if trying to sneak back, Tuppence came slinking around the other side of the farm house.

She looked awful, and sad.  She was covered in stinking pond water and mud.  Head to toe.  Her back fur was spiked up with scum so that it looked like a teen with gelled up hair.  Her muzzle was black with mud.  She shook like a series of internal earthquakes were wracking her body.

Deborah shouted, “What the Hell, Tuppence?  Where have you been?”  Tuppence just turned away.

Tommy muttered, “She chased a frog.”

“Frog cheated,” said Tuppence.

“Cheated?” I asked.

“Jumped over tall grass into water,” she said.

“And you jumped after it?”

Tommy pipes up again, “She tried to turn around in mid air.  Looked like a drunk gymnast.”

Ever practical at animal husbandry, Sister in Law grabbed the dog shampoo and the hose, and unscheduled dog baths ensued.  Tuppy obviously looked like she wouldn’t have chased amphibians if she knew bath would result.  Tommy kept muttering, “Why me?”

We hooked the Posse up to their leashes, and sat back down, waiting for them to sun dry.  Tommy moved himself to the other side of the lawn chair from the barn and its cats.

Six a.m. two mornings later we loaded up and headed south for Texas.  The Posse curled up for the ride in their back-seat doggie hammock.  Ten hours (and numerous rest stop stops) later, we crossed the Red River and entered Texas on I-35.  Interstate traffic warning signs began to tell us every 10 miles that there were Hurricane Watches from Brownsville to Beaumont, and that “Travel to Texas Coast Discouraged.”  This, of course, was the week Harvey was headed ashore.  I sure hope people heeded the warnings, but I doubt many did.

In dusk, we passed New Braunfels, just 30 some miles from home.  I looked back and saw that the beagles were awake, so I tried to start a conversation.  “What did you think of the eclipse?”

“Which one?” asked Tuppence.

“THE one,” I said.  “You know, where the sun got blocked out.”

Tommy said, “The frog pond dark, Tupp.”  Tuppence snarled.

Then Tuppence tried to explain to me.  “From where we stand, every time a Great Dane passed by, it blotted out the sun.  WE got lots of eclipses.”

Yes, I guess everything depends on perspective.  So I went another direction.  “How did you like the farm”?

Tommy said, “I rolled in horse poo.” I told him I’d noticed.

Tuppence said, “Frogs cheat.”

Tommy muttered, “Barn cats,” and turned to stare out the window.

Well, I told you before....

The Beagle Posse called a meeting.  

Tuppence began.  “We’re here to tell you that we did not do That.”

Worried, I asked, “Didn’t do what?”

“Oh,” said Tommy, “we did what, but we didn’t do That.”

Not wanting to get into an Abbot and Costello routine with dogs, I just said, “Explain."

Deep beagle sighs of weary exasperation.

“The Rock ‘n Roll That,” snorted Tuppence.  “We’ve been careful not to do it.”

“Driving around,” said Tommy, “you listen to all that satellite music.  And it talks about “That” all the time.  And we didn’t do it.”

I just raised an eyebrow.

“Like,” he continued, “those Beatle peoples.  They keep saying, 'I told you before, you can’t do that.'  And we haven’t.”

“Or,” said Tuppence, “That Meatloaf guy, great name by the way, keeps singing, 'I’ll do anything for love, but I won’t do THAT.'  We didn’t do it either.”

Tommy added, “The Rock ‘n Roll That.”

“Guys,” I said, “those are just silly pop songs, there’s really no 'that', it’s just a literary device.”

“Well,” huffed Tuppence, “you sing along with them, and WE. DID. NOT. DO. THAT.  We are innocent.”

I broke the reasoning circle, “Hey, I want to get back to the ‘what’ you said you did do.  Which what was it?”

“Did you find it on the floor?”

“No.”

“Then maybe we didn’t do it either.”

“Yeah,” said Tuppence with a slow awakening, “we hearby deny doing either that or what, and we certainly didn’t do both of them.”

“Well, maybe one,” mumbled Tommy.

I pounced.  “Which one?”

The Beagle Posse looked at me, at each other, and turned to leave the room.  “There’s a ‘which’ we can do?” asked Tommy.  “A which?  Let's go.”

“Yessssss,” said Tuppence.

I did a face palm.

Hillbilly Rules of Thumb

(Opening note:  I grew up in Hillbilly land.  These are friendly memories.  Special thanks to Terry, Silkey, Jake, and Bud for editorial assistance.)

Fishing:

Buy one six pack of beer for each dozen worms bought at the bait shop.

Your cousin will drink twice as much beer when you are buying than when he is buying.

Each tourist in the boat will cut the number of fish caught by half.  If you are with more than two tourists, it’s not worth fishing.

A tourist will catch a hook in someone’s ear.  It won’t be his.

They were biting yesterday.

If you have to work tomorrow, they’ll be biting tomorrow.

A hillbilly is half the fisherman he says he is, and one third the hunter he claims.  Unless he just keeps his mouth shut about hunting and fishing.  Then he’s great at both.

On a first date, always bait your date's hook first.  Then pop her a beer.

Bringing Wine Coolers on a fishing trip does not make you sophisticated.  But it may get you drowned.

Auto Repair:

One hillbilly will spend the day drinking beer and planning on fixing the car.  Two hillbillies can get any car running.  Three hillbillies will never get the car running.  Four or more hillbillies will require first aid and/or a 911 call.

If you have a car in the yard up on blocks for parts, the part you need will be the one part already taken off of it.

The two most important items in the hillbilly tool box are WD-40 and Duct tape.  Your brother in law will be incapable of using either one.

If you are trading beer for work, keep the beer hidden until the work is done.

After all the beers are gone is not the time for a test drive.

If you need to taky your car to a mechanic, pay close attention to the second man who tells you that mechanic is dishonest.

Using your truck key to clean your ears in public is acceptable.  But probably not in church.

The longer you own something, the older it gets.

Wedded Bliss:

Never marry a girl whose brothers are meaner than you are.

If an “old friend” of your wife’s drops buy, and the dogs don’t bark at him, call a lawyer.

If you are a woman’s second husband, and she is a widow, you will never live up to the magnificence of her first husband.  If she is divorced, she will eventually see all of the faults in you she saw in her first husband.

If you are walking into a roadhouse beer joint with a date, and she says, “They have a great pool table here,” you are probably in for a bar fight.

No, there is no “other way” to get pregnant.

When getting married, it is acceptable to wear a leisure suit with a bowling shirt.--Shoes are optional.

Community Action:

The meanest, dumbest, laziest bully in your high school class will become the preacher at a non-denominational church at the edge of town.

In matters of science, you really should listen to the High School science teacher instead of the Baptist preacher.

In a hillbilly town, the Police only have two jobs.  One is keeping the usual drunks off the street, the other is covering up for the “upper crust.”

To the Town Council, it is not a Speed Trap.  It is an Enhanced Revenue Stream.

Just because an Opinion is a Second Opinion doesn’t mean it is a Right Opinion.

A politician who doesn’t know what he’s talking about today is not likely to know any more tomorrow.

In Theory, Practice and Theory are the same thing.  In Practice, they are not.

The bigger a city a lawyer comes from, the more dishonest he is.  Corollary:  This does not mean that a small town lawyer is honest.

From Miteuhbin to Couldahappun

It was a really tired, surly, grumpy morning.  A three coffee dawn to say the least.  And I knew why.  The why possessed a total of eight legs and two tails, and was immensely satisfied with itself.

I needed to get the Beagle Posse together to discuss my displeasure, but they were unwilling to schedule a meeting until I had retrieved some cheese from the fridge for treats.  Finally I could get their attention, at least until the Cheddar ran out.

“Posse, you kept us up most of the night. “ I counted” at least three lengthy trips to the back for bumping, scratching, yipping, and digging among the garden tool bins.  Right under our windows.  You better explain.”

“Oh,” said Tuppence, “It turned out there was nothing there.  You didn’t have to wake up.  We took care of it.”

Through gritted teeth.  “That’s the POINT. We didn’t have to wake up.  But your noises did the job, didn’t they?”

Tommy spoke.  “Well, if you worry in the night, and sleep so lightly, you’re lucky to have us to make sure no monsters or rodents disturb you.”

I asked, “What did you think was there last night?”

Tuppy condescended to explain.  “It was a mean old Miteuhbin.”

“And what’s that?”

“A Miteuhbin will scare you worse than anything,” said Tommy.  “You go to all the trouble of chasing it, barking at it, snarling and growling, and you find out that it wasn’t there.  But it Miteuhbin.  You can never be too careful about a Miteuhbin.”

“So,” I say, “It turns out there was nothing there, and all of the noise was for nothing.  You kept us up for nothing.  Just what form of monster in the garden were you so worried about?  You know how Deborah hates it when you dig in the garden.”

“We saved you,” said Tuppence with a smug flip of the tail.  “For all you know, there could have been an Ogre in the Oleanders.”

“Yes,” joined Tommy. “Or a Prowling Panther in the Petunias.”

“Posse, don’t you dare start…”  Too late, they were rolling.

“A Creeping Criminal in the Crocus.”

They were giggling now.  Nothing is more unnerving than beagles giggling as a human squirms and stews.

“A Reprobate in the Roses.”

“A Deadly Danger in the Daisies.”

“A Crook in the Chrysanthemums.”

I was beginning to groan in pain.

Tuppence stood thinking.  Then, “A Nattering No Good, Nasty, Ner’do well in the Nasturtiums.”

“Oh, THAT was a good one,” snapped Tommy.  And they turned to High Paw each other, and do something like a beagle end zone dance.

I finally broke.   “Hey!  There were none of those.”

“Nope,” said Tommy “But, there was the Miteuhbin.  Not to mention the danger of a Couldahappun.”

Leaving me moaning on the couch, the Posse walked away.  Triumphant again.  “I heard Tuppy tell Tommy, “And that’s how you shut him up.”