The Battle of Freestone Gulch

We return once again to the thrilling days of yesteryear and the Edenic verdancy that is South East Asia.

“Hinges,” said Chappy.

“Gonna be,” replied Looie.

In GI shorthand, the corporal and the Lieutenant had just agreed that the day was going to be hotter than the hinges on the gates of Hell. The platoon was saddling up for a Sweep—a slog through muddy paddies and jungle patches full of wait-a-minute vines. The latter have so many stickers on them that as you brush by, they grab your pants or shirt and make you wait a minute while you untangle.

The point of the day's sweep was not to find any VC. In fact, all on the hike were planning to do everything possible to avoid seeing Charlie. The point was to find ammunition caches. Charlie would move in stocks of mortar rounds and rockets close to the base so that they'd be at hand on the night of an attack. The companies on the base had to take turns sending out platoons to see if they could blunder through the countryside and stumble on and destroy these. Being out in what the troops called “Indian Country” for a few hours in 105 degrees and 200% humidity was not a fun way to spend the day. Not the least reason being that though we didn't want to find Charlie, Charlie didn't want us to find the ammo, and would sort of “discourage” us from the sweep if he could. He had claymore, RPG, and AK discouragers at hand. “What'll we do if we find a cache, Sarge?”

“Blow it up.”

“Hell, Sarge, that's all Charlie's gonna do with it. We could stay home.”

At noon, having found nothing, the platoon stopped for lunch. A gourmet repast out of C-Ration packs that one veteran described as “tastes like the back seat of a NY taxi.”

There were bright spots in the Cs, and with the luck of the draw, you might get one. The Beanie Weinies weren't too bad, and the fruit cocktail, and canned pound cake were ok. But the prize of prizes was a can of peaches. C rat cans of peaches were so valuable that I never saw a GI trade one for anything—not even pot or sex.

Chappy got the winner that day. And he waxed poetic as to the glories of the sweet golden gems and how they'd fare in his mouth. “In fact,” he said, “I'm not gonna eat these now. I'm going to save them for tonight.” And he tucked the small, olive-drab painted can under the top flap of his olive-drab pack. That placement, and those colors under the rice paddy sun, become important in only a couple of hours.

There was never any attempt at stealth on one of these sweeps. In fact, we did not want to surprise anyone. Make enough noise and let them slip away. So, the next couple of midday hours were spent slogging line abreast, to search the most area, shouting rude/crude jokes, listening to the black guys “do the dozens” ('Hey, Homer, Yo Mama so poor, doesn' she have her face on Food Stamps?'), and singing snatches of songs. Mostly of two songs. The first, the GI Anthem, “We Gotta Get Outa This Place.” The other, the jingle from the Army recruiting commercials back in the world, “If You're Good Enough to Get In.” ('Back in the world' mostly meant the US, but could really mean anywhere but Vietnam. “Where you from back in the world?” “Missouri.”)

Somewhere in the middle of a chorus of “Good enough” the platoon slammed into an ambush. Or, more precisely, an ambush slammed the platoon.

An ambush is instant chaos. First you dive for cover, then you begin to return fire. It was said, whoever got fire superiority in the first 20 seconds would win. But those 20 seconds seemed VERY long. Sort of like 8 seconds must feel to a Bull Rider.

Above the noise of the rifles, we could hear Chappy. His voice rising octave by octave as he screamed, “Shit, Oh Shit, Damn, Damn, Damn.” Hale said, “He's hit. We gotta get over there.” Guys began scrambling, crawling, diving to the spot where Chappy was rolled up against a downed tree. “Where are you hit?!”

“My peaches! The bastards shot me in the peaches!” Which led, GIs being mostly teen boys with teen minds, to everyone looking at Chappy's crotch, checking his “PEACHES.” Sigh of relief. No blood. Then they noticed him holding something to his mouth. The firefight went on around and above. Chappy screaming at the unseen enemy, “You sons a bitches, soon as I finish my peaches, I'll kill all of you! Bastards shot my peaches.”

Later, in the calm after Charlie disappeared like he'd never been there, the story came together. About the first AK round in had caught Chappy behind the left shoulder. There it first struck the pack flap, through that to the can of peaches, traveling along the can splitting its seam, and hitting the aluminum pack frame then going off into the trees. Chappy said that he was diving for cover when it felt like a sledge hammer hit him on the shoulder blade. It spun him over, and he reached back with his other hand to grab where he'd been hit. All his hand felt was hot, sticky fluid oozing out. He instantly knew he was bleeding to death. Then, by reflex, he pulled his hand around to look at it. The fluid was clear, not blood red. His hand was covered with it. He took a taste. Peach juice! He grabbed around behind his shoulder until he found the split can. When we got to our “wounded” buddy, he was sucking the remaining fruit from the split can, and yelling his hate at the people who wasted his peaches.

Chappy had no broken skin. He had a black and yellow bruise the size of a platter on his shoulder and back. He couldn't raise his left arm for a couple of weeks. He never lost his love for peaches, though.

Beagles, Pat Robertson, and Dinosaur Weenies.

I made the mistake of leaving the Discovery Channel running.

Before I knew it, the Beagle Posse had watched a documentary on the Theory of Evolution. They demanded a Sit Down.

“So,” said Tuppence, “As we understand this evolution thing, we're basically a couple of wolves spending our days with a monkey, and the monkey is in charge. Is that about right?”

“First of all,” I sighed, “it's more 'ape' than 'monkey', and it has to do with common ancestors, not with what either you or I are today.”

“Potatoes, Yams,” said Tommy.

“Ummmm, I think you mean.......”

“Would you like to have a sample of our Wolfish dentition?” asked Tommy.

“Would you like to find out how that dentition is going to do chewing on only the kibbles you can get out of the cupboard and Tupperware without any Ape-ish thumbs?”

Tommy muttered, “You're so proud of those two digits.”

“How many days do you want to go without them feeding you?”

Tuppy jumped in, “Let's talk about birds.”

“Huh?”

“The program said birds are the remaining dinosaurs.”

“Well, given millions of years and millions of changes, I guess that's true.”

Tommy began to strut around my chair, “Watch your step, Ape Boy, I can kick a dinosaur's ass.”

I began with great patience. “No, the birds in our yard aren't dinosaurs. They are the animals that dinosaurs evolved into. Evolution is defined as, 'Change in a group of organisms over time through the process of natural selection.' So, as dinosaurs became extinct, a few began to slowly change into the birds of today.”

“Yeah,” continued Tommy, “I can whup up on a Sparrowsaur, a Jayasaursus, a Goldfinchadyctl, a....”

“Stop. First of all, you can't even catch one of them.”

“Well,” sniffed Tuppy, “they cheat.”

“How's that?”

“They fly off.”

I said, “There's evolution for you. As the creatures lost their size and strength, they developed other means of self-preservation, and one of those was flight. See how that works? It's really cool science.”

“Nope.” Tommy puts in. “I watched another show that said wings are an example of irretraceable constructivty.”

“I think you mean, 'irreducible complexity,' and that's a silly argument put up by Creationists. Scientists have proved it wrong over and over. After you'd seen a good show on Evolution, why would you even watch a Creationist show?”

Tuppy looked at me with pity. “Because it's a lot easier to read just the first 20 pages of one book than hundreds of dense science texts. Sheesh, even Pat Robertson can see that.”

“Yeah,” I said, Robertson is about a Helix short of a Genome. He's the kind of anti-science fool who also denies Climate Change.”

Tommy stopped his strutting for a second, “He doesn't have to pee in Weenie-Deep snow. Let him do that a few times a winter. THAT'S something you can't deny, believe you me.” He went back to strutting.

“You know,” I said, “if I understand him, Robertson also denies Weenies.”

Tommy was still strutting. “Tommy the Dino Slayer, Tommy the Tyrannosaurus Wrecker, Tommy the....”

“Wait a minute Mr. Dino Slayer, what about those hawks? You run for the doggie door every time the shadow of one crosses the yard.”

Tommy looked at me briefly, “I've got other plans for them.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, an asteroid is gonna hit 'em.”

Deck Us All With Boston Charlie.

(This work is not mine. It is from the brilliant mind of Walt Kelly, and his wonderful comic strip, "Pogo."  If you remember it, you are older than dirt.  If it is new to you, enjoy. During this Peaceful time of year, even 'possums, porky pines, and 'gaters are Posse members.)

Deck us all with Boston Charlie,

Walla, Walla Wash., an' Kalamazoo!

Nora's freezin' on the trolley,

Swaller dollar cauliflower alley-garoo!

Don't we know archaic barrel
Lullaby Lilla Boy, Louisville Lou?
Trolley Molly don't love Harold,
Boola boola Pensacoola hullabaloo!

Bark us all bow-wows of folly,
Polly wolly cracker 'n' too-da-loo!
Donkey Bonny brays a carol,
Antelope Cantaloupe, 'lope with you!

Hunky Dory's pop is lolly,
Gaggin' on the wagon, Willy, folly go through!
Chollie's collie barks at Barrow,
Harum scarum five alarm bung-a-loo!

Dunk us all in bowls of barley,
Hinky dinky dink an' polly voo!
Chilly Filly's name is Chollie,
Chollie Filly's jolly chilly view halloo!

Bark us all bow-wows of folly,
Double-bubble, toyland trouble! Woof, woof, woof!
Tizzy seas on melon collie!
Dibble-dabble, scribble-scrabble! Goof, goof, goof!

The Mud Pit Revelation.

The beagle definition of “mud room” obviously was more like, “mud house.”

I stood just inside the front door and looked at the gumbo trail our living room and hallway had become. It was a drizzly winter day, not quite freezing, and the Posse had taken advantage of the recently installed dog door to make several trips to the yard, where they had taken advantage of the soggy ground to dig. They obviously have learned to use the door; not to wipe their feet.

(For the initial explanation of the dog door, see “The Cabra Portal”, Nov. 13.)

As I was noticing that the trail even led up onto the couch and love seat, which we DID cover with washable, dog resistant throws, in comes the entire Posse--trotting, grinning, and adding another coat of brown pigment to the broadloom. I stopped them before Tommy could jump up on me, noticing that their paws, all 8 of them, were caked, and that Tommy even had a coating of mud on one ear. (A state he never would explain. I asked, “Why is there mud on your ear?” and he replied, “I can't hear you, I have mud in my ear.”)

They saw my expression, with a “no treats for a week” curl to my lip, and immediately began to speak. “We were out in the back, looking through the fence for marauders, when the mud just rushed through the door and onto the floors. We're as surprised as you are.”

“No, the mud did not come in by itself. Who tracked in all this dirt?”

Tommy first, “We told you that if you put in that dog door, the Chupacabra would sneak in. Those look exactly like Goat Sucker tracks to me.” Then Tuppence, “My theory is rogue squirrels. We were out back checking on the raccoons, and while they distracted us, squirrels—a BUNCH of squirrels--snuck in and trashed the place. It's a well-known fact that raccoons and squirrels are in a satanic alliance against beagles.”

“Satanic alliance?”

“The Rodent Axis. It was on all the news channels.”

I sank onto the (muddy) love seat. “Look, that's four different stories in less than 30 seconds. You need to agree on the one you're going to try to sell me.”

Tuppence looked at me closely, “Which one did you find the most believable?”

“Huh?”

“It's like shopping for cars. We want to sell you the one you're most likely to buy.”

“The stories are all lemons,” I said.

Tommy threw in, “That never stopped you on the car lot.”

“Look,” I said, “You tracked in the mud. I just want you to tell me you'll be more careful.”

“That's beside the point,” said Tupp.

“You don't have a point.”

“Apparently, neither do you.”

“Yeah, well, my point is, you each get a bath.”

Tommy scratched at his muddy ear, tossing clods onto the front of the end table. “Also pointless.”

“How's that?”

Smugly, “We know where there's more mud than you know where there's dog shampoo.”

I slapped my knees and stood up. “Well, some of this is dry enough to vacuum up.”

“No, you can't” whined Tuppence “We made this a holy shrine.”

“Now that's a new one. Do tell.”

“Look at that paw print over there. See, it has the image of the Virgin in it. And over there, clearly the face of our Savior. See how the sand and the mud swirl together to reveal the blessed face?”

“Not seeing it. Not buying it.” I said.

“You didn't see the Blessed Mother in the tortilla either, did you?”

“Where did THAT come from?”

“And speaking of tortillas, we'll take two, with peanut butter—the peanut butter doesn't have to make an image.”

“NO!” I grabbed the Hoover and took a pass down about 5 feet of prints in the hall, leaving a clean path.

“Ayyyyeeeeeiiiiiiii!” And the Posse scrambled for the dog door, fighting to both get through at once.

“Are you still that scared of the vacuum cleaner?” I asked.

“No.” Tommy screamed. “The lightening.”

“There's no lightening going on.”

“It's coming,” yelled Tupp as they cowered in the back corner of the yard. “You just sucked up all the Stations of the Cross.”

The Posse Storms the Diet Industry.

The Posse made clear that it was displeased to have been left home during our Thanksgiving trip.

Tommy said, “Thanks, A LOT.” But I didn't hear any thanks in the phase. It sounded a lot like when you say “Thank you” to the cop as he walks away after giving you a ticket. As Mark Twain said, “He's got the lyrics, but he sure ain't got the music.”

I explained, we visited a ranch with 14 horses, 3 Great Danes, a Weimaraner, a Black Lab, a Pug, and an albino, blind and deaf Guinea Pig. We were afraid the Guinea Pig would hurt the Posse. PLUS, there were no beagle-proof fences between there and Wyoming. The last part the Posse saw no problem with. But we could just see ourselves chasing scent hounds on a trek across the freezing, wind-swept Nebraska prairie. And it was not a delightful vision. At least not from the human side.

Tuppence said that they had not wasted their time, even if we had wasted ours. They had come up with a great way to increase the family finances. Tommy said, “We'll be poopin' Filet Mignon, and you'll be fartin' through silk. There's so much money in this plan a drunk Kardashian couldn't spend it in a weekend in Monaco.”

“Okay, I'll bite. What's the plan?”

“We've invented a diet. Well, actually, a diet book you need to write, but it's packed with big bucks.”

“You dogs have invented a diet?”

“Yeah, have you SEEN the stupid stuff fat folks will fall for? All you have to do is claim they will lose weight without any work, and they'll start throwing money at you. Grapefruit diets, Cider Vinegar diets, Steak diets, Mediterranean diets. Artichoke and Honey diets, Raw diets, even Mold and Algae diets. The fools will buy into anything if you just put an anorexic starlet, or has-been actress with an eating disorder, in the commercials and on the book cover. Oh, yeah, and used the words, 'proven', and 'THEY don't want you to know'. You don't have to PROVIDE your proof, and you don't have to say who THEY are, or why they don't want you to know. Every Honey Boo Boo viewer knows all about who THEY are.”

“OK,” I asked, you are saying your diet is based on the gullibility of the American public?”

“Exactly.”

“And how does your diet work?”

“It doesn't have to work. It just has to sell. All diets are like that.”

“Hmmm. Well, how do you SAY it works.”

“We don't say how. We just say, 'Watch pounds melt like magic.”

Still suspicious, I asked, “Won't that be a lie.”

“Nope.” said Tommy. “Melted pounds aren't gone pounds.”

I said, “Let's go back a bit. What are you going to call this diet?”
Tuppence smiled like a banker at a foreclosure. “The Gullibility Diet.”

“Huh?”

“We're perfectly honest. The whole diet is based on the buyer's gullibility. We tell them, 'You just have to believe us.”

“And they'll lose weight?”

“Probably not. The point is, they THINK they'll lose weight. Right up 'til the next fad comes along.”

“And you'll call it, 'The Gullibility Diet'? Won't the title be a give away?”

Tommy smirked at me. “Hey, these are the people who think Reality TV is reality. They watch 'Duck Dynasty' and 'Honey Boo Boo.' They believe in 6,000 year old Dinosaurs and don't believe in Global Climate Change. These chubbies actually think that if they give billionaires enough money, the rich bastards will give some back to them. Besides, we will give them one true piece of dieting advice. That's more than most diet books do.”

“One truth. And what would that be?”

Tuppence piped up. They obviously had thought this through while we were gone. And I thought all they'd done was chew up paper and track in mud. “It's this,” she said, “You can eat anything. You just can't eat everything.”

I started to object, but realized, that actually made sense. Beagles making more sense than all the human Diet Gurus? Really? Well, even that isn't a stretch if you think about diet gurus.

“Won't the title, 'Gullibility Diet' be a red flag?”

“Nah,” said Tupp. “Five syllables in gullibility. They won't even sound it out. They'll just see 'Diet' and plop down the MasterCards.”

“But,” I said, “eventually even some dumb people do catch on. Won't they be mad and come after us?”

“There's the beauty,” said Tommy. “That's when we'll sell them the second book, for twice the price.”

“Second book?”

“Yeah,” grinned Tuppence. “ The title is-- 'Sucker no more. Buy This Book to Cure Gullibility.' -- It'll be a self help masterpiece. They get the lesson the minute they pay for it. No reading required.”

I Get Hot When You Speak French At Me.

Because they spend so much time around vain, self-absorbed, appearance-fixated people, film crews and stage crews tend to be intentionally scruffy. They lean to beards, t-shirts and gimme caps. Even successful behind the camera people dress down.

Jim E. comes to mind. A excellent cinematographer, he has been the Director of Photography on several movies you'd recognize, and countless TV shows and commercials. I had the joy of working with him on TV spots. When not on location, Jim lived in Dallas. Dallas, with the Studios at Las Colinas, and other facilities, has a thriving film community. A while back, one of the big service companies supplying camera, grip truck, lighting, and other rentals to production companies, was a firm named Victor Duncan. Victor Duncan supplied many of the gimme caps worn by Dallas film crews, because all they had on them was a large, bold-faced, “V-D.” Grips, Gaffers, DP s, and other Craft crews live IN YOUR FACE.

During pre-production meetings for a commercial shoot in Dallas, Jim and I went to lunch at a small “French-influenced” restaurant in the Quadrangle. No group is quite so full of itself as the staff of a “French” restaurant in North Dallas. Jim was dressed in his usual Crew Casual, complete with VD cap. Snooty waiters in Dallas seemed to often misjudge Jim. He was well off, and and worked/traveled all over the world. Don't judge a customer by his cover.

As we looked at the menu, and got the stinkeye for the hat, Jim commented to me that he wasn't very hungry, and might just have soup.

When the waiter, from the height of his minimum-wage haughty, finally deigned to come to our table, Jim looked up and asked, “What's the Soup Du Jour?”

With all of his North Dallas dismay at having to actually serve the “Unwashed Masses,” the waiter sneered, “It's the “soup of the day.....(pause)...sir.”

Jim, with his gruff, growling voice, missed not a beat. “I KNOW that,” he rumbled. “But the last time I was in here and had the Soup Du Jour, the chef was using frozen Du Jours. That is not acceptable. You maybe can't, but I can taste the difference between frozen and fresh Du Jours. So, Sonny, what I want to know is, are the Du Jours in the soup fresh or frozen?”

Waiter stammered, “But, but, the words mean.......”

Jim jumped on it. “Don't you 'but, but” at me. Do I look like you could fool me with frozen Du Jours? Well, do I look like that kind of fool to you?”

“Sir, I'm sorry, but...”

“Yes, passing off frozen Du Jours is sorry. Here's what you do. You march your tight little waiter pants, and your silly gold neck chain, back to the kitchen. You get the chef. You tell him Jim is here, and he's on to the game. You bring that chef out so he can look me in the eye and assure me that his Soup Du Jour today is packed full of the freshest Du Jours he could find at the market.”

If you have a choice, go to lunch with the Crew, not with the actors. It's more fun.

A Balanced Meal. Teetering on the Edge.

The Beagle Posse marched in in Delegation File.

It's hard to explain, but they have different ways of coming at me single file depending on the purpose. There's the Dinner Time File, the Treat Time File, the We Need Attention File, the You Are Failing Woefully File, and most disturbing of all, the Delegation File. Admittedly, these all just look like one dog following another into the room, but believe me, to the practiced eye, there are differences in demeanor and stride.

The Delegation File means they have unmet demands—demands that go beyond the usual food, scratches, treats realm. Demands that may have been slowly percolating up through Beagle Consciousness (a state about which Climate Deniers are skeptical), or demands that may have just hit like of bolt of inspiration arriving on some cosmic telegraph. Few moments are as anxiety prone for a beagle owner as those before finding out just what new Posse demands might entail.

Tuppence spoke. “We finished our Thanksgiving list.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, “the things you are Thankful for?”

“The things we want.”

“Isn't that a Christmas list?”, I asked.

“We'll get to that after we see how you do on the Thanksgiving list,” said Tuppence. “This is a list of things we want to see on the table—and the floor.”

When it comes to food, beagles are single minded. And, with the Posse, Tuppence is designated to make food demands. Tommy is designated to commit food theft.

“OK,” she continued, “write this down. First, turkey; then turkey drumsticks; then turkey gizzards; then turkey gravy; then turkey juice; and finally, pie. Any kind of pie. And, oh, yeah, did I say turkey?”

I began to see a pattern. “Why did you add pie?”

“We want a balanced meal. You can drop the turkey on the floor. Balance the pie on the table, Tommy will get it.”

“Sorry,” I explained, “we're not having Thanksgiving dinner at our house this year. We're eating with relatives at their house.”

Tommy finally spoke up, “Did we say this list was for you? We noticed that it's only a week until Thanksgiving, and there's no turkey in our freezer. You are failing again.” Don't ask me how, but the Beagle Posse can give a complete inventory of all sources of protein in our house at any time—freezer, fridge, and canned in the pantry.

“If you want a balanced meal, shouldn't you have some vegetables?”, I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” said Tuppence. “We'll have Brussels sprouts with bacon.”

“Just make it without the stinking Brussels sprouts.”