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.