My grandfather used his pipe to call the six Tobys (all of his dogs were named Toby) by lighting a bowl of Granger when they were out exploring the farm, and they would come howling and barking from whatever distance they'd traveled. The "heel" command was delivered via Carter Hall. It wasn't an instantaneous command, but Grandpa didn't mind. He needed it mainly when the Tobys were mobbing a visiting stranger, so he was leisurely with the process of adding Carter Hall to his pipe to call them off. Most visitors by that time had somehow combat crawled through the jumping and licking dogs back to their vehicle and fled, which suited Grandpa.

It didn't work when the revenooers came, though. One drove down the driveway and emerged from his pickup, standing fast under the Toby tsunami until Grandpa Carter-Halled the six dogs to the porch.

The stranger came to the house and said, "I'm — "

"I know who you are, Agent Smoltz," said Grandpa. He was seated at a small table on the porch with five or six pouches of tobacco open, and he was mixing a small amount together in careful increments. "You and your boys have been trespassing all through my swamp for the past week."

"I thought you may have noticed. That's probably why I have two men injured from deadfalls and traps. I'm here to tell you we've located your still and will be destroying it in the morning."

"Don't know what you're talking about, Agent. I'm a law-abiding taxpayer." An admirable lie. Grandpa broke every minor law he could, as long as it hurt no one, just on general principle, and bartered and made everything he could to avoid paying taxes of any sort. He'd been making some of the best moonshine in the county for decades. His personal preference was for store-bought liquor, but he said it was his civic duty to screw the government.

"Fine, if that's what you want to say. There's nothing you can do to stop it now."

Grandpa was now rolling his blended tobacco into a tight ball between his palms. He held the sphere up to his eye, oriented it carefully, and placed it slowly into the top of his pipe bowl, then lit it.

The dogs stood and milled about, nudging one another and sniffing the air. They seemed confused, but understanding struck them simultaneously and they bounded off east across the fields, baying and barking and carrying on.

The agent smiled. "I knew you'd do that," he said. "We never found your still, but I knew if I said we had, you'd send those dogs to check on it. I have men and dogs of my own to track them." The barking of strange dogs and shouts of strange men drifted through the woods to the south, moving toward the baying of the Tobys.

He'd been making some of the best moonshine in the county for decades. His personal preference was for store-bought liquor, but he said it was his civic duty to screw the government.

"You don't say," said Grandpa, applying another match to his bowl and puffing into the westerly breeze. A few minutes later, the distant sounds of the two groups of dogs converged and there was some short yelping, followed by faint human shouts of alarm. A squawk blared from the agent's truck and he jogged over to it, pulling a walkie-talkie the size of a mailbox out of the cab. "Smoltz! Come in!" said a shrill voice through the speaker. "The dogs tricked us. They led us into a quicksand pit in the swamp and abandoned us. We're all stuck and sinking fast. Help!"

The Tobys were returning now and they surrounded the agent. However, there were now 10 dogs instead of six. "Four of these dogs are mine," said the agent. "I need them to find my men."

"Help yourself," said Grandpa. The agent stepped forward but froze when all 10 dogs crouched and growled with bared teeth.

"Looks like you're mistaken," said Grandpa. "Those are my dogs. Right, Toby?" All 10 dogs turned, tails wagging. Then they turned back to the agent and growled.

"Where are my men?"

"Don't know what you're talking about, Agent. Now get off my property."

"They're drowning. Show me where they are and we'll leave you alone."

"For life?"

"You'll never see another revenue agent. How long do they have?"

"The quicksand is five feet deep. They were never in danger. Here's a map; 'X' marks your agents, completely safe, but stuck up to their necks. They're pretty discontent, I bet. There's gotta be more pee in that swamp now than there was, unintentionally supplemented while they sank."

Grumbling, the agent snatched the map and drove off while Grandpa tapped out his pipe and refilled it with his usual Granger, lighting it contentedly and leaning back in luxurious comfort, the 10 Tobys lounging around him.