Gators and Sharks and The Dread Pirate LaRATfitte.

Ah, Beagle Posse paw prints in the beach sand.

"Come on, Posse, you can wade, and swim, and romp."

"Nope," said Tommy. "There's stuff in there we can't see."

"Octapurples, Toecrabs, Sharkachupacabras, Portuguese Sting Your Butts, and more." wailed Tuppence.

I had noticed how the tracks suspiciously crept up to the retreating waves, then rushed away from each incoming lap of water. We had pulled the camping trailer at Galveston Island State Park.  The introduction of the mighty Beagle Posse to the Sea to Shining Sea of the Gulf of Mexico wasn't going very well.  Water spaniels they are not. The surf was mild that day, and not really crashing so much as lapping, but even two to three inches of salted H2O easing up the sand held the terrors of the deep for Tommy and Tuppence. Beagle toes would not be submerged. And Tommy took up the chorus of terrors of the deep:  "Mullet jumpers, Clam-a-grab-yas, and PIRATES."

"Tommy, tales of the Pirate Lafitte are just tales the Galveston folks tell tourists to sell them made in Japan 'genuine pirate gold.' Plus, look out there. You can see to the horizon. There are no pirate ships."

Tommy says, "Pirates got submarines."

"Submarines in 6 inches of water, Tommy?"

"Very thin submarines."

"Yeah, as thin as your story.  Let's go back to camp."

As we headed off the beach, just at the dune line, a big swamp rat ran across the path and into the dune weeds.  Tuppence immediately slipped her harness (no idea how), and gave vigorous howling chase, disappearing into the undergrowth, her head appearing occasionally as she bounded about trying to catch the critter. Tommy half-heartedly tugged once at his leash, then decided the better part of beagle valor was to stay back on the path and guard us in case of a rear guard rat attack.  Luckily, it wasn't just Deborah, the posse and I.  Our grown daughter was with us, and was able to join the chase to head off Tuppence from running all the way down the 20 miles of beach.  My bad leg and cane were of use only as a leash holder on Tommy.  Who was steadfastly not leaping into the head-tall weeds.

The human women cornered and releashed the beagle huntress. Not without enduring damning "fun spoiled" looks from the canine.

So, one skittish beagle, one disgruntled beagle, one limping man, and two winded women headed back to the trailer.  With a fife and drum, we could have been a Fourth of July parade.

As we moved back toward the bay side of the park, the marshy side, we came on the sign that warned of alligators in the park, and cautioned about approaching or feeding.  We humans did not need that warning. Tuppence decided, having been denied a full rat adventure, to try to pull into the marsh grass in search of what she, under her breath, was calling "sneaky lizard."

We jerked her back, telling her in no uncertain terms that she did not want any truck with a 6 foot plus "lizard" in the lizard's own back yard.

Tommy stiffened all four legs and pronounced, "We're not scared, we chased off a T-Rex one time."

"You did not," I said. "You sniffed fossil dino tracks in a stone creek bed."  (For the full story, see "Beagles Trail a T-Rex," April 5, 2019.)

Tommy sniffed, "Dinosaurs are just big birds and lizards.  We heard a Discovery Channel show.  They don't scare us."

"Hmmmm," I mused, "you were scared of a rat at the beach, and all those things you claimed were in the water--Sharkachupacabras, really? Don't try to tell me you'd take on a 'bird' the size of a road grader with teeth the size of shovels."  Just then, a Great Grey Heron, all 4 feet tall of him, landed 30 feet out in the marsh.

"Run," yelped Tommy, "the T-Rex found us." The Beagle Posse lunged to the ends of their leashes and pulled for the trailer.

At the trailer door they danced like they had full bladders, saying, "Hurry, hurry," and kept looking back where they saw the bird. I unlocked the door and they bounded in.  They flung themselves into the corners of the settee, and Tuppence squeaked, "shut the door, shut the door." I latched it, grinning about beagle bravery. They are, after all, rabbit hounds, not wolf hounds.  Certainly not Godzilla hounds.

I opened a bottle of Topo Chico, Mexican fizzy water, and sat down, absently scratching Tommy's tummy. "We're all safe, big boy."

"Not really," grumbled the dog.  "You're 20 minutes late with our supper."