The Beagle Woogie Bugle Boy of Ayreshire Drive.

In a home with two senior citizens and two beagles, routine becomes a sacrament.

Evening routine usually begins with turning off the TV.  The silence brings the Beagle Posse trotting, if they aren't already in the room. For, the next step is for Dad to go to the kitchen, finish cleaning up, loading and starting the dishwasher, locking the doors, and heading for the bedroom.  This part of the routine is important to the Posse, and they will paw and whine and demand until I am out of the chair and start on it.


It's important to Tommy and Tuppence because they assign themselves the chore of a tongue pre-rinse cycle on dishes going into the machine, and because lights out and leaving the kitchen includes a half milk-bone for each of them--final treat of the day. My prior-to-slumber routine in the bathroom and bed room is of no importance here, and the Posse routine will continue after I finish my prep with Tommy climbing into the bed and submarineing under the covers.  (The under covers gas attacks are another post altogether.)

But the routine in question for this conversation with Tommy had nothing to do with my prep, dishwashers, or even cover diving.  It has to do with his side trip during that interim. He goes through the dog door, down the side yard, and into the back yard, whereupon he sets to his nightly routine of beagle barking to the neighborhood. There is no one there. No intruders. No menacing wildlife or roaming dogs.  Just the night, and the woof, woof, aarrroooo. Tuppence generally does not participate in either the barking or the bed climbing.  She starts every night curled up in the seat of my recliner, and comes into the bed only about 5 to 6 am so as to not miss Deborah's awakening and the morning walk. In fact, at a certain point, she'll become insistent on THAT routine.

So, I sit on the couch with Tommy.  "Tommy, what are you barking at every night?"

"I'm not barking."

"Tommy, I hear it, it goes on for about 5 minutes, then you come in. You bark."

"I don't call it that," he says.

"And," I continue, "it's a good thing we go to bed at old-fart o'clock, so it isn't late enough that the neighbors complain."

"Do you need a history lesson?" asks Tommy

"From you, a 9 year old dog who can't read? A history lesson for a 71 year old man?"

"Yes," he says.

"OK. Go ahead, dogsplain it to me."

"The word 'beagle,' describing our ancient people, comes from the same root as the word 'bugle,' as in trumpet."

"Go on."

"So, each night, it is my duty to go out and bugle Taps for the neighborhood."

"Taps?"

"So that Benny the beagle next door, and Finney the terrier on the other side, and the yappy mutt-mutt down the block, and the hated Angry Labrador up the street, all know that we are going to bed, and they should too."

He looked serious as a hound dog taking a......serious.  I said,"Tommy, what you do doesn't sound anything like Taps to me, not like any bugle call I've ever heard, and I've been in both the Boy Scouts and the Army."

"Well," he snorts, you never have had much of an ear for music.  Besides, if it comes out of a bugle--a beagle--it is a bugle call. That is both pure music and pure logic."

"Hmmm," I mused, "let's try it another way then.  Could you do it a little quieter?"
I SWEAR the dog laughed at me. Out loud. 

When he got his breath, he called to Tuppence who was in my lounger. "Tuppy, he wants me to bugle quieter!"

"I want you to quit bothering the neighbors."

"What?" he said. "I'm not bothering them, I'm signaling them.  And I don't know about the humans, but all the other dogs in the neighborhood answer when I bugle Taps."

"But the people..." I began.

"Are your problem," said Tommy.

From the TV room, Tuppence finally joined in the conversation.
"AROOOOOOOO!"

Is LA Burning?

Our client was Citgo Petroleum. They sponsored a team of “Baja” desert off-road

racing trucks, and we were in Los Angeles filming a commercial using them as an

endorsement for Citgo motor oil.

The previous day’s shooting had been action shots of the trucks in the desert.

This morning we were at a Ford Motors test track and facility in Long Beach.

Shooting things like the truck screeching to a halt in front of the camera, and

the driver saying a line.  Also, some gleaming-engine under the hood shots

and such--you know, “B-roll.”

It was early. It had been a 6 am call. Still, we kept having busted takes because

of sound.  Sirens, helicopters, etc. seemed to pop up every time the director called

Action. Of course, no one had watched the news before dragging out of the hotel

and their houses (crew) for a 6 am call.

Suddenly a fleet of cop cars burst through the gates of the closed facility and screeched

up to our camera position.  Cops wearing helmets and riot gear streamed out and

ran up yelling, “What the hell are you doing.” (This was all pre-cell phones.)

“Uh, shootin’ TV, mumble, mumble. ‘Portant bidness.  Tight schedule.”

A disgusted cop pointed to a huge pall of smoke just a couple of blocks away, “You see

that?  That’s a Safeway, and that’s a store, and THAT’s a store, and all of those.

Didn’t you hear the sirens?”

“Well, yes, we did, we lost a lot of takes to them.”

The cop sighed and explained that the Rodney King verdicts had come in, and that

the city, particularly this part of the city, was under full riot.  He said, “Throw this shit

in the truck, and get your white asses out of here. Go South. NOT North. NOW!”

By now a grip had tuned in a car radio, and was sitting white-faced in his Toyota.

We began to understand.

We loaded the grip truck and the camera van and headed out.  Making for Anaheim

as fast as we could.

We all got out safe. Then found out, that A) we could not get back to La Cienega

Blvd. to return the Camera gear, and that the rental company would give us no slack,

but would start charging for extra days. And, B) Our production insurance carrier l

aughed his ass off at the call.  He said, “You are the 15th call this morning. Production

is shut down all over the city, and the policies do not cover ‘Acts of war, Civil Unrest,

and Insurrection.’ Good luck.”

End of that part of the story:  We ended up cutting the spot together from what shots

we did get, with some Foley work and overdubbing for the lines--after all, we HAD

the exciting trucks-racing-across-the-desert shots.

HOWEVER, the personal part of the story begins.  I had a lot of frequent flier miles,

and we had friends in LA.  Our daughter was 6, and we thought a trip to Disneyland

was called for.  SO, she and her mother were flying from Dallas that morning to meet

me. By the time we figured out what was happening, they were on the plane, and

unreachable.  All I could do was check in to the La Quinta we had reserved for the

weekend in Anaheim, and hope for the best.

The first Deborah knew something was really wrong was as the plane turned for final

approach over Compton, and she could see the city ablaze.  They landed at LAX, she

got to the Hertz building, which already had bullet holes in the window, and picked up

the car. They gave her instructions on how to QUICKLY get on the freeway South, avoiding

all surface streets until near our hotel. She called me from the rent car counter, and

I was fit to be tied until she and our daughter got to the room door 45 minutes later.

We were all safe. We went to Disneyland the next morning, and, for most of her young

life, our daughter thought you could go to Disneyland and not stand in any lines--there

were FEW people there that day.

Beagle Law West of the Pecos.

Being unsure of the grade level at which beagles read, I read the sign for the Beagle Posse. "No Diving From Bridge." They instantly wanted to argue about that.

"It's a free country," declared Tommy. "They can't just order us not to dive."

Checking my iPhone quickly, I said, "The water at the bottom of this canyon is the Pecos River. It is about 4 feet deep, and this bridge is 275 feet above it."

"Yeah," sniffed Tuppence, "Well, how much is that in dog feet?"

"There's no such thing as 'dog feet'."

Tommy was right on it. "If there's dog years, then there must be dog feet. And, what if we see a squirrel down there?  We are duty bound to dive in.  That's Beagle Code #1."

"NO DIVING."

Tuppence says, "Let's ask Terry, he's smart."

Old friend, and Best Man at our wedding, Terry had come along on this trip. He's recently "semi" retired, and a fellow aficionado of Judge Roy Bean--"The Law West of the Pecos."  (There may have to be a blog entry about his and Julie's dog "Beano.")

"I don't think Terry will advise you to dive."

"Well, we'll ask, at least on this trip, we have someone smart with us."

I tried to calm the Posse. "I'm not sure Terry can hear you speak, but..............WAIT, what do you mean THIS trip, and when did dogs learn to use italics?"

Tuppence quickly changed the topic. "This Bean fellow we're going to see, does he have any dogs?"

"Well, he's long gone, we're just going to see his old saloon and courthouse, he must have had dogs. He did have a bear."

"BEAR? You're taking us to see a bear?"

"No, HAD, as in gone. History tells us the bear died of cirrhosis of the liver due to all the beer people gave him in the saloon."

"I heard the ranger at the park (Seminole Canyon State park where the camper was) warn people about bears, coyotes, and other animals in the canyons," said Tommy. "And even the ranger was too scared to warn us about the Chupacabra."

I sighed. "There is no such thing as a Chupacabra."

Tommy would not be swayed, "Is too, and since we're camped less than a mile from the border to Mexico, they can easily sneak in."

Tuppence joined, "And that doesn't even count the illegal Beagle Traffickers who will try to snatch us, put blue duct tape on our muzzles, and whisk us off."

I growled, "I'm tempted to put duct tape on your muzzles sometimes."

The Posse looked at each other, shrugged, and trotted over to mark a Creosote bush and a Prickly Pear."

"Come on, dogs. We need to get to the Jersey Lil."

Tommy: "Will they give us beer?  Or, is that only for bears."

"No beer guys.  The saloon is not a saloon anymore, it is a state historic landmark."

Tuppy was musing, "Beer for Beagles. I like the sound of that. It could be a TV show. 'Stay tuned for Beer for Beagles, starring Jerry Mathers as the Beagle."

Tommy was staring into the canyon. "OK, but if a drunk bear comes running across the bridge at us, THEN can we dive off?"

"I may throw you off."

Things that go woof in the night, or, For Whom the Chime Tolls.

San Antonio sunrise.

The first word that came to mind was, "Churl."  As in, "What kind of churl steals wind chimes?"

Deborah is up at dawn every morning.  The Beagle Posse must walk, and do a Dawn Patrol of the property perimeter.  This morning she discovered that our 36 inch wind chimes were missing from the corner of our patio.  Not fallen.  Not cut down. Not silenced. Gone. Stolen.  And I thought, "Now that's some downright churlish behavior."

As far as either Darling Wife or I could recall, we had heard not a peep, or bark, or whine from any beagle during the night.  We had heard snores and gas, of course, but no sounds of alarm, guarding, or warning.

When I called in the Beagle Posse to have a discussion of this apparent lapse, they came with the speed of a tranquilized snail.  They sensed that this just MIGHT be a Bad Dog occasion.  I wasn't sure it would be, but felt some explanations were owed.

"Do you two hear the wind chimes?"

"Should we?"

"Not now.  But, more to the point, did you hear it last night?"

"What do you mean, 'hear'?"

"BEAGLES!!  Now you are just stalling.  You were with Deborah on the dawn walk.  You heard her say the wind chimes were stolen in the night.  I'm asking why you didn't hear anything or raise the Beagle Alarm when it happened.  Somehow, I don't think stealing 3 foot long wind chimes is a silent accomplishment."

"Maybe they used a silencer, "said Tuppence. "I've heard that gangsters use silencers."

Tommy jumped in. "Well, I did let out one WOOF. You didn't pay any attention.  And, anyway, we didn't like the wind chimes.  They disturbed naps."

"Look," I said, "since the first deal with the first wolf, that contract to trade leftovers for vigilance, the prime directive of the canine/human bond has been the agreement of guarding against night intruders in exchange for plate scrapings."

Tommy sniffed.  "That is some heavy theoretical cat poop you're dropping there."

Tuppence added, "We DO guard you. We have not let a dog walking neighbor, UPS driver, or maintenance man approach the apartment unchallenged.  And, REMEMBER, we kept the dinosaurs out of the trailer at the state park."  (See, "Beagles Trail a T-Rex," 4/5/19.)

"All right," said Tommy, "in spit of your accusatory approach, we will help you out here.  We're the great tracking trailing dogs.  Let us smell a sock or a t-shirt, and we'll track down the chimes thief."

"The thief's sock, or the wind chime's sock?" I asked.

"Either," said Tuppence.  (Yeah, I know sarcasm is lost on dogs.)

"Well, the thief didn't drop one, and the wind chimes never wore shirts or socks."

"Then there's nothing we can do," said Tuppy. "If you won't at least meet us half way, we can't help."

Tommy said, "We'll take our morning treats now."

This time, I was the one who walked out of the room.

Beagles Trail a T-Rex

We had barely pulled through the state park gate when Tuppence's nose went up like a bottle rocket.  "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, SMELL, there's THINGS here."  Tommy grumpily woke from his usual car-ride slumber.

We had taken the camper, ourselves, and the Beagle Posse up to Glen Rose, Texas, a small town South of Fort Worth, and home to a couple of notable features.  The first, the annual Texas State Dulcimer Festival, was why we were there.  The second is the park where we were staying.  Just 3 miles from town, it is Dinosaur Valley State Park.  A beautiful place with a creek running through, and in the bed of that creek, a big series of very well preserved fossil dinosaur tracks in the limestone.  At least two kinds, prey, with predator in chase.  This chase had evidently taken place along what was a muddy sea shore approximately 113 million years ago.  There are so many tracks, and so clear--you can actually see the striations in the claws in some of them--that their discovery in the early 1900s actually changed some ideas about paleontology and the speed at which dinosaurs could move.  We've been to both the park and the music festival before, and love them.  This was the first trip for the Posse.

Oh, yeah, one other thing notable about Glen Rose is that it is the site of the somewhat controversial Comanche Peak Nuclear Power Plant.  But you can ignore that--well, unless it blows up, then it won't matter if you ignored it or not.  We chose ignore.

As I checked in and got our campsite number, Deborah was trying to calm the Posse.  She told them, "Guys, we're in the woods by a river.  There are lots of smells and critters. Calm down."

Tuppy was having none.  "NOT critters.  Big, big, big stuff.  Goooo Tommy." As she tried to paw down the back seat window.

We calmed the dogs enough to get the trailer set up, fix dinner, and settle in for the night.  The first of the music performances at the outdoor stage would be in the morning.  That next day, we got up and went straight to the festival, Beagle Posse in tow.  They had a day of napping on the grass at our feet and greeting friendly fans of old time music. Though Tommy explained that he still couldn't tell the difference between a Jig and a Reel.

We began the second beautiful Texas morning with a dawn stroll down by the creek, and across to see some of the finer tracks in situ. The Beagle Posse, on putting their noses into the tracks, began to quiver like they'd been tasered by an Alabama sheriff.  Tommy put himself fully into the giant track and began to strain the leash.  "Yes, yes, yes!  I have the trail.  C'mon, Tupp!"

Holding the dogs back, we said we doubted they smelled a track 113 million years old that had had water washing it for millions of those years.



Tuppy snarled, "Well, maybe human noses can't, but we're beagles.  This track has just been waiting for us.  Let us go, we'll bring one back to you."

"First of all, girl, there are none left to bring back, second, I don't fancy your chances against a creature whose back paw print can encase your entire body."



"But there's TWO of us," said Tommy.  "We'll get 'em."

"Two of you, and one T-Rex.  Yeah."

"OK," said Tuppence, "maybe we'll just bring back a leg, not the whole lizard."

I sighed.  "Posse, why are you so fixed on these old tracks.  Wouldn't you rather have a fresh rabbit trail to run?"

"Nope," choked out Tommy, straining at the leash. "Want 'saur."

"Why?"

"Tastes like chicken."

Napenclature

For a couple of days, workmen have been active in the apartment above.  The Beagle Posse came to me as a committee of the whole to lodge a grievance. 

"You make them stop," Tuppence demanded.  "They are disturbing our power restoration cycles."

"Power restoration cycles?"

Tommy spoke up, "When we coil, with our eyes closed, and appear motionless."

"Ah," I said, "You mean naps."

"They are disturbing us," snapped Tuppence.

"Yeah, I noticed. Yesterday you only managed about 18 hours of sleep."

A unison bark.  "We were NOT sleeping."

"Well, the eight hours burrowed under the covers with us last night, complete with snores and rabbit chasing yips, sure SEEMED like sleep."

"Stop changing the subject," said Tuppy.  "We're talking important daytime stuff. When those guys are banging and grinding up there."

"And when Tommy," I said, "is curled up on a throw pillow in the corner of the couch."

"I'm on Bushy-Tailed Tree Rodent vigilance," sniffed Tommy.  "What you call a pillow is an important rodent vibe concentrating platform--a RVCP, in military terms.  It raises me to the perfect level to pick up their sneaky chewing and chomping at the bird feeders."

"All the while cushioning your lazy dog butt."

"Did I insult YOU?" And Tommy pointedly turned to present just the butt in question to me.

"And you, Tuppence,  spend nearly every daylight and evening hour napping on my lap in the recliner.  I have not noticed a change in that due to carpentry above."

"AH, HAH," jumps Tuppence, "You don't even realize I am concentrated on saving your life and limb."

"Huh?"

"That is my Anti Gravitational Immunity station.  I curl up on your lap, and demand skritches and scratches, at great sacrifice to myself."

"Looks and feels like napping to me."

"And that's how good I am at it.  Look, just think, some day you are sitting there, watching a BBC Mystery show, and you suddenly become immune to gravity.  You would immediately crash into the ceiling, probably grazing the light and the fan on the way, and could be seriously injured.  Maybe concussion--which can be deadly.  You're welcome."

"Suddenly immune to gravity?"

"It can happen in a (then came a paw action I can only interpret as a canine attempt at finger snapping.)"

"No one becomes suddenly immune to gravity.  That's not how immunity OR gravity works."

"I will remind you," inserted Tommy, "That both immunity and gravity are merely Theories."

"Well, I have never felt even a twinge of immunity to gravity," I said

"I've been there to hold you down, and keep you from even feeling it," smugged Tuppy.

"Wait," I said, "I thought you wanted to talk about naps."

"You just don't listen," yawned Tuppence, and they both circled three times and  snoozed out.