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.