In the Absence of Antelope

I was awakened by the sound of the dog door flap going like playing cards in bicycle spokes.  (You remember those?)

As I lifted my head, there was much yipping, sqeeging and snarling from the back yard, but none of the usual barking.  I could see a highly agitated Tuppence running back and forth through the dog door, obviously trying to enlist human help.  Fearing that maybe Tommy was out there injured, I got up, grabbed my glasses, and flipped on the patio lights.

Tuppence was wailing, “He won’t give me any, he won’t give me any, hewon’tgivemeany.”

I stepped out into the patio summer night and spotted Tommy at the edge of the light pool--kind of in shadow, but he was acting confused, and had something dangling from his mouth.  One of his circles took him a bit more into the light, and it looked like a messy, dirty gray, slobbery tube about 3 inches long.  Tuppence was still whining and pushing at me.

“Tommy, what have you got!?”

“Muffa-peeled-moufs.”

“What?”

“(p’toui) It’s a field mouse.”

I ask, “Tommy, where did you get a field mouse?”

Proudly he says, “I hunted it.”

“Hunted?”

“That’s what we do, we beagles.  We were bred and trained to be mighty hunters.  And I just hunted this trophy field mouse.”

“Hunted?  In our back yard?  Trophy?”

“You won’t let us hunt squirrels or rabbits.  We hunt mostly rodents, you know.”

“Well………”

“And, to what Order do mice belong?”

I sigh.  “The Order Rodentia.”

“Bingo,” says Tommy, reaching down for his prize.

“Wait.  What makes you think you two house hounds are hunters?”

Tuppence jumps in.  “We were born to it.  Just like some fools are born to be satirists.”

I asked, “Since when do hounds know words like, ‘satirist’?”

“We live with you, don’t we?  We can either call you a satirist, or a smartass.  You choose.

“We were born to hunt, and since you don’t keep any antelope in the back yard, we have to stay sharp by bagging mice.”

“You mean to tell me,“  I pondered, “You think beagles hunt antelopes?”

Tommy snarled, “Wolves do.  So we do.”

“But wolves are much larger, faster, and more fierce than you beagles,” I said.

In chorus they replied, “Says who?”

“Well, OK.  But, Tommy, why were you wandering around with that mouse?  I’ve seen you chomp down bigger bites than that in a gulp.  Like that time with the whole slice of pepperoni pizza.”

Tommy picked up his quarry and led us back into the bedroom.

“Tommy!  Don’t you dare jump on the bed with that.  What are you doing?”

Tommy put it down on the carpet and said, “Deciding how to fix it.”

“Fix it?”

“Mmmmhmmmm.  Florentine; Provencal; of maybe just a simple sautee.  You aren’t the only one who likes fancy food, you know.”

Because I have bending and reaching problems, I keep a “getting stick” handy.  During the above gourmet mouse prep discussion, I reached over and got it.  Like brooms, mops, and vacuum sweepers, for some reason, the Beagle Posse is afraid of the stick. So, when Tommy backed off a couple of steps, I was able to grab the mouse with the jaws of the stick.  I carried it into the Loo and flushed it down.

“Hey,” Tommy yelled, “that was MY mouse.”

“Well, it’s gone now,” I said. 

“But,” says Tuppy, “why did you put it in our magic water bowl?”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about that now.  It’s one in the morning.  Get in bed.  Both of you.”

As they jumped on the bed, Tommy said, “Well, OK, but don’t blame us if the field mouse army rushes you in the night.  Sweet dreams, mouse thief.”

Hog and Bev's

On the highway between Blue Eye, Missouri and Green Forest Arkansas was a high-class road house with a peeling plywood sign out by the road.  The sign read, “Hog and Bev’s.  Formerly Hog and Lil’s.”  (Evidently Hog was a bit of a sport.)

Other signs attached to the pole outlined the services of the establishment.  “Beer. Bait. Fax. Fishing Licenses. Tourist Cabins. Bar-B-Que.  (including vegetarian)”  Hog was what you might call, Vertically Integrated.  The place was also on record as having sold the most Falstaff beer in a single month of any outlet in Missouri.  This record was probably tied to the fact that the next five counties in adjoining Arkansas were dry, and sold no adult beverages.

Inside was a wobbly quarter pool table, a juke box, a tiny, splintered dance floor, a couple of Formica tables, and a bar.  Behind the bar were the neon beer signs, a Wonder Bread chalk board with the BBQ menu—Beef Plate.  Pork Plate.  Combo Plate.—and a magic marker sign that read, “Do not use bar for measuring contests.”

Hog was a fine figure of American manhood.  With a belly that was a monument to American beer.  He had once spent six months in the army, including two months as a loading dock worker in Vietnam, until he was sent home and got a medical discharge for a badly infected ingrown toenail.  In memory of his military career, Hog wore camouflage tee shirts that only gapped about three inches above his belt, and referred to beers as “bravos”, utilizing the Army phonetic for “b.”

Bev, on the other hand, as Hog observed, had, “let herself go.”  Of course, what did you expect of a woman who spent 14 or more hours a day in a beer and BBQ bar, keeping a hawk eye on her “sportin” husband (those tourist cabins were just too handy as far as Bev was concerned) ,and eating virtually nothing the bar did not provide.  Bev’s well rounded breakfast generally included a “big red”—a glass of beer with a splash of Snap-e-Tom tomato juice in it-- and a couple of pickled eggs from the jar on the bar.  Also, occasionally, a Penrose pickled sausage from the other jar on the bar, and a handful of stale corn chips from the glass-enclosed Nacho machine—“for roughage.”

Bev’s rapid weight gain after her marriage had long been a study for both the cattle industry, and the Chicago Board of Trade.  One of the regulars put it, “She’s still a half axe handle taller than she is wide.”

Of course, Hog was going nowhere.  Bev had a genuine Ozarks prenuptial agreement.  It wasn’t on paper.  It was hanging in the gun racks of the pickups driven by her three older brothers.  One of them said at the wedding reception, “Hog, you hurt baby girl, and I’m a gonna give you a 12 gauge explanation of your shortcomings.”

Bev did have her dreams.  She dreamed of operating a much higher class food emporium.  Maybe even as fancy as the place up the road that specialized in fried chicken livers and gizzards to go.  A girl has to have something to hold on to.

So, Hog and Bev ran their commercial empire in a fog of marital bliss and a beer haze.

In those days, the music business up in nearby Branson was beginning to grow, and with it, Hog’s place began to get a little more tourist traffic and out of town customers.

One afternoon, in walked two tourist women dressed in what Hog called, “The full Birkenstock Platoon.”  Hog glance up and gave his usual greeting to strangers, “Sit anywhere that don’t look too dirty.”

One of the women came up to the bar.  “First, we’d like to know just what vegetarian bar-b-que you have.”

Hog had near forgot he’d put that on his sign as a joke.  But he recovered quickly.  “Why, all of it ma’am. Everything on the menu.”  With a jerk of his thumb to the black board.  “What’ll you have?  Large plate or small plate?  Oh, by the way, that menu is a bit out of date.  We also have Venison Sausage.”

The woman gasped.  “Sir!  How can you call those meat plates vegetarian?”

Hog says, “Well, we use nothing but grass fed cattle, and corn fed hogs.  And them Bambis eat just grass, acorns, and leaves out in the woods.”

“Huh?”  The hipster lady was beginning to look like one of the deer.

Hog continued, “Grass, corn, acorns, leaves. Them’s all vegetables.  So you see, our Bar-B-Que comes vegetarian right from the source.  We build it out of vegetables from the ground up.”

It was reported that Bev nearly got run over coming back from the laundromat.  A Honda hybrid spewing a rooster tail of gravel and dust blew by her as it flew out of the parking lot and hit Highway 13 headed north.

The BNC

The Beagle Posse had a list.

“We’re gonna need some of those flat fake straw hats, some vests made to look like the American flag, some silly red, white, and blue bow ties, and a whole bunch of signs with names and slogans on them,”  announced Tuppence.

“Plus,” added Tommy, “some extras like police and security guards out in the street to control the press and protestors, and a Hospitality Room with an open bar, shrimp cocktails, and hors d’oeuvre size crab cakes.”

“And a BIG pan of those little barbeque sausages,” drooled Tuppence.

I looked up.  “What are you talking about?”

“Our convention,” explained Tuppence.  “We have it every four years.  The Beagle Party National Convention—the BNC.”

“And just why do you think you beagles need a convention.”

“We’ve got important stuff to do.  We’ve got to get mad about arguments where the two sides aren’t a beagle whisker apart.  We’ve got to call each other ‘false beagles’, and argue what makes a REAL beagle.  We’ve got to write a platform that no one will ever read, and certainly no one will follow.  We’ve got to nominate a top dog.  And, mostly, we’ve got to give long speeches explaining how anyone not with us 100% is evil on the hoof.”

“And balloons, ” added Tuppence, “We’re gonna need a whole Disneyland worth of red, white, and blue balloons.”

“Also,” injected Tommy, “we’ve got to plan where to have the next BNC in four years.  We’ll need to make reservations next week to get a flight.”

“This begins to sound familiar,” I said.

“Well,” said Tuppy, there are a couple of minor groups who’ve copied what we do at the BNC.  By the way, we saw one of those groups on TV last week.  Just what is wrong with being a son of a bitch?”

I had to admit, from a beagle, that was a good question.

“Oh, yeah,” said Tommy, “We’re going to need lots of aspirin and antacids.  And you better get some  for yourself too.”

Beagles on the Case

My grandfather used to call a certain time “the shank of the evening.”  I was never sure exactly what that meant, but have always presumed it meant the long and meaty part. It was after our regular dinner time, except, of course, the Beagle Posse had been fed at their usual 5 o’clock.   It was one of the days when Deborah was scheduled home late, due to singing with her choir.  Waiting for her, so we could eat together, and discuss our day, I was engaged in the vital function of arguing politics with strangers on the internet.

Tommy said, “OK, tell us right now where you put her, and it’ll go easier on you.”

“What?”, I looked up from my keyboard.  “Put who?”

“The food lady. She’s supposed to be home by now.”

“The food lady?  Do you mean Deborah?  I already fed you your dinner.”

Tuppence joined, “You’re the food guy.  She’s the food lady.  We want there to always be a backup beagle feeder in the house.  Now, tell us where you hid the body.”

“What body?”

“The food lady.  She’s due home before now.  Since we haven’t seen her, we presume you’ve done something really bad.”

We need to pause the dialog to explain two things here.  One is that beagles are totally creatures of habit.  They have internal clocks that let them regulate their day, and the days of any humans around.  They know meal times, treat times, walk times, bed times, getting up times, and, of course, coming home times.  Two, ever since we named these two beagles after Agatha Christie detectives (Tommy and Tuppence Beresford), they have considered themselves master sleuths, and are always on the lookout for crimes and dastardly deeds to solve.

Picking up the string.

”Look,” I said, “on two nights every two weeks, Deborah sings with her choir and gets home a couple of hours later than usual.  She’ll be here any time.  There’s nothing for you to worry about. Plus, Deborah is my life and soul, I’d never hurt her.”

“We have sniffed every square inch of the back yard,” said Tommy.  “And we’ve looked for freshly turned dirt.  If you put her back there, you hid her well.”

“You two are skating on thin kibbles here.”

“Through the window, we see lots of fresh-turned dirt in front, we’ll need to check that.  Open the door.”

“Those are the flower gardens, and I am NOT letting you out front. Every time I do, I have to spend hours looking for you.”

Tommy said, “Tuppy, I think she’s in the car trunk.”  Turning my way, he said, “We’ll need a sniff of that.”

“NO!  I am not taking you out to sniff the car.”

“AHA!” shouted Tuppence, “NOW we know where he hid her.  Okay, buddy, were you just waiting for dark to drive her off and dump her?”

“I’ve had enough,” I said. “Deborah is fine.  She’s due home any minute.  I can’t help it if your programmed Canine Calendars can’t grasp that she’s late two days out of every two weeks.  Why do you think, just because you’re called after detectives, that you are capable of crime solving?”

“Well,” sniffed Tuppence, “some humans think just because they are called a nominee they are capable of presidenting.  Now then, can you PROVE she comes home late two out of fourteen nights?”

“How do you dogs know there’s fourteen days in two weeks?”                                                                

“Beagle wisdom,” said Tommy.  “The nose always knows.”

Right then, four beagle ears perked up, and two beagle noses began Hoovering the breeze.  Sure enough, there was the sound of the garage door opener.  Less than a minute later, Deborah walked in. I was instantly ignored as the Posse began its evening Welcome Deborah ritual—bouncing, wagging, yipping, hand licking, running back and forth up and down the hall in excitement.  “You’rehomeyou’rehomeyou’rehome.  He can’t hurt you now.  We’re on the case.”

Deborah must have been confused by the ‘can’t hurt you now’ crack, because she acted like she didn’t hear it.  She and I greeted one another, and she went to the bedroom to change.  The Posse, still barely containing their excitement, followed along.  Tuppence breathlessly explained to her, “We won’t let anything happen to you.  We have our eyes and noses on him.  We’ll know it if he puts you in the back yard.”

I yelled down the hall, “POSSE, ENOUGH OF THIS NONSENSE.”

Tommy yelled back, “We still need to check the car trunk.”

Deborah just began changing clothes and acted like she didn’t hear any of this exchange.  Sometimes, I think Deborah doesn’t think beagles can talk.

You Have the Right to Remain Silent.

Beagles will drive you nuts.

My first clue that something was wrong was when I called, “Posse,” and no dogs came into the room.

The Beagle Posse had spent a horrible, beaglecentric, destructive morning, and I really needed to discuss their behavior with them, and see if we could settle on some consequences.  I had spent most of the morning on an errand to help a friend.  When I got home, from clear out front on the drive I could hear the two yipping, yapping, squeaking, and squealing in the back yard.  Sure signs of varmint pursuit and digging—mining for chipmunks.  I went to get a snack and glass of water, figuring that the sound of the fridge opening, and the crinkle of cookie package wrapping would bring them running. It always does.

They didn’t show.  This must have been a serious Rodent Rooter episode.  Who knew how deep they had dug, or would dig. I called again. They didn’t show up, and the noise continued.  I didn’t know how long it had been going on, but was sure it was beginning to bug at least some of the neighbors. So, I went to the sliding glass doors looking onto the patio and back yard.  There is a 2 foot wide top-to-bottom insert we have put in beside the sliding door.  It has the dog door in it, and is the way the Posse can come and go.  I could see them, or at least their back ends, head down at the corner of the house and the patio, mud flying as they frantically tried to fit themselves down a chipmunk burrow.

I slid open the door and called again.  No response. So, I went to firm voicing of individual names,  “Tommy!  Tuppence! Get in here. “ They finally looked up, and with regretful glances at their work in progress, came through the door.  My mistake.  They were mud to the knees, and proceeded to transfer that to the carpet and my pants legs.  When I slid the door closed, and they thought I was going to trap them inside, they scooted out the dog door before I could put the drop shield in place.  Then, NO amount of calling or coaxing would get them back in.

As the high-pitched prey pursuit sounds continued, I went in and got some dog treats.  I took them to the door, got the dog gate in one hand, treats in the other, and called Tommy and Tuppence.  For a treat they came in reluctantly, and just as I gave it to them, I dropped the gate, locking them indoors.  They were still muddy, there was still going to be a mess to clean up, but they were no longer bothering neighbors, digging up the yard, or terrifying munks.

I returned to my snack.  The Beagle Posse day was just beginning.

They did come in through the kitchen for water, and to totally track a freshly mopped floor with mud.  Then they disappeared.  I figured they were just sulking. Beagles can be right up there with cats on the Sulk-o-meter.

After a period of silence, I unmistakably heard yipping from the back yard again.

This required investigation.

On the way to the bedroom, I discovered SOMEBODY had been ticked off enough about the closed dog door that they had peed in the hall.  Then there was the thoroughly mudded bedroom carpet and bed spread.  And this trail led to the door, where they had torn out the weather stripping between the dog door insert and the sliding door, leaving shredded foam all over, and had then put paw or something into the gap, slid the door open, and gotten out.

So, I went out grabbed collars, drug them in, put the safety lock pole in the sliding door panel, and walked away to cool off.

And that brings us up to the point of having to have the discussion of malfeasance and consequences.

I sat in my favorite chair and called them in.  “Posse,” I said, “Do you have any explanation or excuse for your messes this morning?”

And they sat and looked at me like they couldn’t talk, and didn’t understand a word I was saying.

Now, we all know, the Beagle Posse talks.  There’s about 50 or so posts on this very blog proving that they can.  But, in this instance, they sat mute.  Tuppence cocked her head to the side in the universal dog “trying to figure this out” pose, and Tommy just bent down and began to lick…….beagle parts.  Silence.

“Well, “ I demanded, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Nothing.

“If you don’t say something, I’m going to have to put in the blog how naughty you were, and how you refused to explain yourself. Your fans will be very disappointed.”

Silence.

“You two are in big trouble.”

They looked at each other, then took to the couch to express deep remorse.  And nap.  (See photo above.)

Beagles, Sausages, and Sticks

After a tough quarter hour of barking at phantoms and wind gusts in the back yard, the Posse came in for some shade and a drink of water.  As they walked by me working on my computer, Tommy said, “Don’t you think you’re cutting it a little close?  It’s only 7 days til the big picnic, and you haven’t even started on the snacks yet.”

This was the first I’d heard of any picnic or snacks.  “What’s that, Tommy?”

The biggest annual summer day in the Beagle Year is only a week away, and you are head of the food committee.”

“The food committee?” I asked.  “Who put me on that, and who else is on it?”

“You’re always the food committee,” he said. “And nobody else is on it.  That’s why you better get cracking.”

“Let’s back up here.  What big day?”

“The Picnic,” said Tuppence.

“And why is there a picnic, Tuppy?”

“Because it’s the Big Day.”

“Ok, and what makes it a big day?”

“We just told you,” she said.  “The Picnic.”

I feared an attack of vertigo, so tried to get some clarity.  “What’s this Big Day called?

Tommy said, “It’s Twentyleventh.  It comes every July 21.”

“And why do you celebrate it, Tommy?”

“Because it’s the Big Picnic.”

“OK, I get that.  But why is it the Big Picnic?”

Tuppence audibly sighed, “Because it’s Twentyleventh.”

I could feel the merry-go-round starting under my feet again.  “So, if I understand, Twentyleventh is a holiday because of the Big Picnic, and the Big Picnic is important because it’s on Twentyleventh.  Is that it?”

“Well,” said Tommy, “If you want to put it in silly human terms.  It’s a Beagle thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

“I certainly wouldn’t.  But you know, if you add 11 to 30, you get 31, so why isn’t Twentyleventh on July, 31?”

“Because that would be silly,” he said.  “Now, about the food.  We’re thinking simple this year.  Just some sausage on a stick, some cheeseburgers, and a couple of pounds of cubed cheddar.”

“Just?”

“Yeah, and to make it easier, on the cheeseburgers, you can hold the mustard and ketchup; the lettuce, tomato, and onion, and the bun.”

“Hmmmm.  And what kind of sausage do you want?”

“On a stick.  We can play with the stick later.”

“No, I mean, Italian, Polish, Bratwurst, Cajun, Smoked, foot long wieners, what sausage?” I was curious how far this would go.

Tommy mulled over those choices of sausage and said, “Yes.”

“Yes, to which?”

“Yes to those.”

“That’s a lot of sausage for two beagles, I said.”

“Yep,” added Tuppy, “so you better get double what you planned.  And, if it’s just the same to you, we’d like it all cooked out on the grill.”

I contained, if barely.  “It’s NOT all the same to me.  No, I will not cook on the grill for you, in fact, I don’t plan on getting any of this stuff for you.”

“But you’re in charge of the food.  If we don’t have great food for the Big Picnic, we can’t exchange the traditional greeting, May the Twentylevenesence shine on you.”

“Twentylevenesence?”

“Yeah, the glow a beagle gets after consuming pounds of sausage, cheeseburgers, and cheddar.”

“It seems to me, the Twentylevenesence would be more like the huge cloud of gas you release.”

“That too,” said Tuppence.

“Posse, get out of here.  Not only am I not cooking anything on the grill for you, I’m not getting any of that food for you.”

“But,” begged Tommy, “we’ll be shamed all over Beagledom if we don’t uphold Twentlyleventh.”

I’m a sucker.  “Well,” I said, “maybe I’ll get you a couple of chicken weenies and cut them up.”

I could hear them talking as they walked away.  “See,” said Tuppence. “I told you we could out negotiate him.  You just have to start high enough, then you end up with what you want.”

“Ahhhhhh,” said Tommy, “Chicken weenies.  May the Twentylevenesence shine on you.”

More on Language from Sgt. Charleston

One of the life benefits of the old drafted army was the diversity.  Draftees came from many ways of life, and all corners of the nation, including Puerto Rico.

As an Ozarker, I had for sure never before run up against anyone like Ricco.  Ricco was New York street corner Italian, with all the Tomato Sauce attitude, swagger, and self-esteem that went with it.  He ran head on into Sgt. Charleston on the second day of Basic.

Sgt. C strode into the barracks.  “Gentlemen’s, I will call your names.  When you hear your names, you will respond with a loud and clear, ‘Heah, SAH-junt.’ Is that clear?”  And he began to call names.  Recruits responded with the requested term, and various levels of enthusiasm.  About 20 names in, he came to Ricco.

“Ricco.”

“Yo.”

Sgt. C didn’t look up from his clipboard.  “Gentlemens, ‘Yo’ is not a word that will be spoken in my Army.  I am SAH-JUNT Charleston.

“I am not, You’

“I am not, ‘Hey’

“I am not, ‘Dude’

"I am not, ‘Man’.”

He looked up.  “I am, ‘SAH-junt.  That is how you will address me.  You will use one of three ways to speak to me.  You will say, ‘Heah, SAH-junt,’ or ‘Yes, SAH-junt,’ or ‘No excuse, SAH-junt.’  You will never damage my ears with a ‘Yo,’ is that clear?  And, above all, you will never call me ‘Sir.’  Sir, is an officer.  I am a Sah-junt, the finest title that can ever be applied to a man.  An officer is a gold-plated brass candy-ass, who struts his congressionally appointed self about, drinks at the O Club, and pretends to run this Army while the sergeants are accomplishing the mission.  And, finally, an officer, from Lieutenant to General, is someone you will address as ‘Sir,’ you will salute, and you will give your ultimate respect.  Is THAT clear?”

“And, if you happen to see a Lieutenant with a map, you will respectfully, and gently, turn the top to North for him.”

“Now.  Ricco.”

“Yo…………sah-junt.”