The Ghosts of Combat Chihuahuas.

Mission Espiritu Santo, Goliad, Texas

Presidio La Bahia, 1747

Soft human bed. Warming morning sunbeam. Tummy turned exactly to sunbeam.  Napping Tommy Beagle had his world in perfect alignment. No doubt Tuppence, the other platoon of the Beagle Posse, was likewise gently snoring in another comfy spot. It was pure beagle nap time, halfway between breakfast kibbles and lunchtime nibbles.

I had come to the bedroom to finish unpacking and putting away our clothing from the trip to Goliad State Park. As I was making busy like a human, Tommy slightly roused, sighed, and rolled further into the sunbeam. I joked at Tommy, "You know, you could be helping with this."

Tommy drowsily said, "You humans work too hard at everything." He was Philosophy Beagle this morning. "You even talk about, 'Trying to get to heaven'."  That came out of the blue. He yawned, stretched, and twisted in the sunbeam.  "You don't have to try, man, heaven comes to you.  Just ride the sunbeam."  Beagle theology and beagle philosophy tend to the simple side--mostly to do with naps, supper, and squirrels.  And in the Zen of Beagle, there is nothing holy to the order of those three.

Tuppence, hearing the conversation, roused herself from Holy Nap and came in.  She is convinced nothing worthwhile takes place in our house without her presence and observation. (This includes, of course, trips to the "water closet" if we don't close the door.) She said, "Don't take us to that place again," and began a serious chewing on her left hip.

"Don't take you...? Oh, you mean Goliad.  I can't see why not.  It's one of the most historic places in Texas.  Two battles there during the war of Texas independence; the site of the Fannin massacre; a truly impressive old Spanish fort and a beautiful restored Spanish mission--plus a wonderful historic downtown.  And, we had a fine campsite in the nice park."

An oak tree, two beagles, one grinning fool in beagle shirt

"Do you hear yourself?" asked a fully-roused Tommy.  "Old church yards, battles, prisoner massacres--soldiers, killing. Ghosts!  And they almost got us."

I said, "I didn't see any ghosts, and I sure didn't see anyone or anything almost get you."

"You didn't see what you weren't looking for."

"Well, Tommy, there's a truth. But, there aren't any ghosts, and even if there were, they can't hurt you."

"We saw them when we looked out the trailer window for dawn perimeter check," said Tuppence.  "They were there. Don't you remember us barking at them?  We saved you."

"You saw them, looking out the window by the kitchen, through the trees, on a misty dawn?"  I pondered, and had a flash. "Posse, you saw campers from the other side of the campground walking through the fog to and from the toilets and showers."

"GHOSTLY campers," said Tommy.  "We let them know what for."

"No, not ghostly, just sleepy."

Tommy proudly declared that they, and they alone, were vigilant enough to keep the ghosts away from the trailer.

"Tommy, there were no ghosts, they were campers."

"That's just what they want you to think," he said. "It's a very cunning disguise. You don't think we'd have barked at them if they weren't there, do you?"

"You bark at stuff that isn't there all the time, I said.  Like the delivery wussels at the front door."

"ALL that stuff is there," huffed Tuppence. "You don't see it because we've already barked it away. Think, human, think.  Soldiers, battles, massacres, there have to be ghosts."

Knowing argument was futile, I said, "OK, then. Mexican Army; Texican Army, I guess if there was such a thing as ghosts, that may well have been a source.  But tell me, with all those soldiers, there had to be dogs. Did you see any ghost dogs?"

"Sure," said Tuppence.

"But we weren't afraid of them," said Tommy.

"Why not?"

"Sheesh," said Tommy.  "Armies from Mexico. The ghost dogs were Chihuahuas.  No reason to be afraid of THEM."