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The intrepid little beagle, wearing goggles and a long scarf around his neck, sat at the controls of his Sopwith Camel. He knew his mates were counting on him to clear the skies of their nemesis. He knew it would be tough. The man had 80 kills, had even brought him down a time or two, but not this time he swore to himself as the bright red Fokker triplane came into view. He barrel rolled and looped the loop, but to no avail. “Drats! Curse you, Red Baron!” Poor Snoopy, Porthos thought. If only he could have Watchdog’s help.