The Case of the Double Bumblebee Sting

by John R. Erickson

  “That, sir, will happen.”

  “And in Texas, we do require proof of insurance.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Watch the speed, ma’am, and have a good day.”

  For some reason, she started laughing. “I’m sorry, Officer, but this is one of the worst days of my life.”

  “Well, I hope it gets better.”

  He returned to his car. Sally May ground the gears until she found one that would work, and off we went with a chug and a cloud of blue smoke.

  There wasn’t much conversation on this last leg of the trip. Little Alfred must have sensed that this would be a good time to observe total silence, and so did I. I hardly dared to breathe. Even Molly was quiet.

  Sally May, on the other hand, had quite a bit to say, but she said most of it under her breath, where we couldn’t hear it. I picked up just enough to know that this was not the day for joking or idle chatter.

  At last, we reached the vet clinic over on the east side of town. Doctor Hardy was a pleasant man, but his office made me nervous. It was filled with strange devices and odd smells. I took one look around the place and said, “I’ll see you folks back at the ranch,” and headed for the door. But he had already closed it.

  At that point, I tried to hide beneath a chair, but he and Sally May dragged me out. I had all claws extended and set in the Anchor Position, but the floor was made of slick linoleum and I couldn’t get a grip. They put me up on a metal table.

  I liked the vet right up to the moment when he came at me with that needle, and at that point I decided to bite him. But somehow he distracted me with smooth talk and ear-scratching, and . . . well, before I knew it, he was finished and I never got around to . . .

  Maybe next time, when I felt better.

  He told Sally May that I would be swollen for several days and that I should stay in a cool place with plenty of water close by. To which she said, “I hope that doesn’t mean in my house.”

  “Well, that’s up to you. The cooler, the better.” He lifted me off the table and set me on the floor. “The good news on these snakebites is that the dog builds up an immunity. The next time he gets bitten, he won’t be so sick.”

  Sally May’s eyes narrowed. “Next time? You don’t think he’s learned anything from this?”

  The doctor laughed. “Oh no, they never learn. Sometimes they go right back to the same place and the same snake and do it all over again, until the snake either moves out or dies from exhaustion. Some of these old ranch dogs get two or three bites every summer, and their owners don’t even bother to bring them in.”

  I could hardly conceal my outrage at this . . . this disgraceful and insulting . . . who or whom did he think he was talking about? Maybe your ordi­nary ranch mutts went back to the same place and the same snake and got bit again, but hey, I was no ordinary ranch mutt.

  I was the Head of Ranch Security, and for his information and for the record, I learned quickly and never forgot any of life’s painful lessons.

  And there would be no more snakebites for me, thank you, Doctor. And all at once I didn’t think he was such a swell guy, spreading lies and phony information, and I had a suspicion that he’d BOUGHT that diploma on his wall from . . . somewhere. Sears and Roebuck, maybe.

  And besides all that, he was an Aggie! And what did an Aggie doctor know about dogs or anything else?

  Yes, I was outraged.

  He had lost all credulity with me.

  Next time, I would just take my doctoring business somewhere else . . . although there wouldn’t be a next time.

  I should have bitten him when I’d had the chance.

  “Dogs never learn.” The very idea! I had never been so insulted.

  We made the drive home without any major wrecks or incidents with the police department. Oh, we did make one stop—at the fireworks stand on the south end of town, of all places. That didn’t make any sense to me until later, and then it made quite a lot of sense. You’ll see.

  When we got back to headquarters, Sally May got some rags and gunnysacks and made me a little bed in the shade beside the water storage tank. I suppose she figgered that would be the coolest spot for a dog in my condition, although . . .

  I, uh, gave her Sad Looks and Slow Wags to remind her that, well, it would probably be quite a bit cooler and nicer inside the house. She had an air-conditioner, don’t you see, and while I didn’t really approve of air-conditioners for ranch dogs, this was kind of a special case.

  I mean, me being sick and everything. Swollen up. Terrible fever. Raging terrible fever.

  Okay, maybe I was feeling better after getting the shot from that phony vet, but still, it’s foolish to take chances with the Head of Ranch Security, right?

  But we didn’t succeed in selling that idea to the, uh, lady of the house, so to speak, and I took up residence beside the storage tank and settled into a long and boring period of recoveration.

  It was long and boring. Drover came up to keep me company, but that made it only longer and boringer. In spite of all his many flaws, he is a boring dog. At last, he even bored himself and went away.

  That left just me and the flies. The flies were terrible. They were driving me nuts. I hate flies. And then . . .

  You’ll never guess who arrived on the scene. Hint: two big black ugly birds whose presence was not exactly an omen of good fortune.

  Chapter Nine: Who Needs Buzzards at a Time Like This?

  Give up? I knew you’d never guess.

  Wallace and Junior the Buzzards.

  I saw them floating around in the sky above me and hoped they would go away. They didn’t. They kept gliding around in circles and dropping closer to the ground with each circle until, with much thrashing of air and flapping of wings, they landed in the elm tree, right above me.

  I didn’t growl or bark at them (too much trouble with the swollen face and everything) but I did glare daggers at them. What did they do? Well, they stared at me, craning their long skinny necks and twisting their ugly bald heads.

  Have you ever been stared at by a couple of hungry buzzards? It’s no fun, take my word for it. It does something to a guy’s self-confidence. I mean, even if you feel comfortable about who you are, even if you have a strong self-conceit, even if you’re fairly sure that you won’t end up on their dinner plate, there’s just something about their presence that ruins a good day.

  How do they stand each other’s company? Have you ever wondered about that? I have. I can’t imagine spending all day, every day, around a buzzard. How depressing. Maybe that’s why Wallace is always in such a bad mood.

  However, Wallace didn’t seem to be in a bad mood at the moment. He was hopping up and down on the limb and seemed almost beside himself with . . . I don’t know. Wild buzzard joy, I suppose.

  “Son, this could be it! This could be the moment we’ve been longing for and waiting for, all these many days! What do you reckon?”

  “W-w-well, he h-hasn’t m-m-moved, hasn’t moved, s-s-so m-maybe h-h-h-h-h-he’s . . .”

  “Hurry up, son, you talk too slow and here I am, starved down to bones and pinfeathers. Speak up.”

  “Uh uh, okay. M-m-maybe h-h-h-h-h-h-he’s . . .”

  “Never mind, Junior, let’s move along and cut to the bottom line. What is he, and will he eat?”

  “W-w-w-well, l-l-let’s s-see.”

  “Is he a badger? From upstairs, I thought he was a badger but now I ain’t so sure. I could sure use some badger, yes I could.”

  “W-w-well, h-his f-f-face is uh-uh-awfully f-f-fat, awfully fat.”

  “You’re right, son, and most of your badgers don’t have a fat face, so what could he be?”

  They both gawked down at me.

  “P-p-p-p-pa?”

  “What.”

  “I th-think he j-j-just b-b-b-b-b-blinked his eye.”

/>   “No, he never.”

  “Y-y-yeah, he d-d-did.”

  “He never, and for very good reason. It’s a well­known fact in all parts of this world that dead badgers don’t blink.”

  “Y-y-yeah, b-but h-he m-may not b-b-b-be a b-b-b-b-badger. Badger. Where’s the s-s-stripe d-d-down his b-b-back?”

  The old man was silent for a moment. “Well, maybe he don’t have a stripe down his back, Junior, but are you going to let little details clutter your mind? For you see, Junior, we don’t eat the stripe, and I won’t turn down a badger just because he don’t have one.”

  “Y-y-yeah, b-but if he d-don’t h-have a s-s-s-stripe, h-he can’t b-b-be a b-b-b-b-b-b . . . one of those things.”

  “Badger.”

  “Y-yeah, a b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b . . .”

  “I hear you, I hear you. All right, fine, maybe he ain’t a badger, so what do you reckon he is?”

  “I d-d-don’t know, P-p-pa, but h-he b-b-blinked.”

  “He did not blink.”

  “D-d-did too.”

  Wallace turned to his son, puffed himself up, and bellered, “He did not blink, and how can you say such a terrible thing at a time like this! And scoot over, you’re a-crowdin’ me off of this limb.”

  “P-p-pa?”

  “What!”

  “I th-think it’s our d-d-doggie f-friend.”

  Wallace whipped his head around and stared at me. “No, he ain’t our doggie friend, in the first place because we don’t have no friends amongst the doggies or anything else that’s fit to eat, and in the second place, he ain’t a doggie. He’s a dead badger.”

  “N-n-no, h-he ain’t a b-b-badger, P-pa, and h-h-he ain’t d-d-dead t-t-too.”

  Wallace began jumping up and down on the limb. “Junior, I am your father and I have spoken and you will show some respect to your own flesh and blood, and I’m a-telling you, that right there is a dead badger!”

  Junior gave his head a sad shake. “O-okay, f-f-fine. H-he’s a d-d-dead b-b-b-b-b-b-b . . .”

  “Badger.”

  “B-b-b-badger.”

  Wallace studied him for a moment. “Junior, do you really believe that with all your heart and soul, or are you just sayin’ it because I said it first, and I want the truth, son?”

  “N-n-number T-t-two.”

  The old man’s chin fell down on his feathered chest. “Junior, you just don’t know how much this hurts me. I ask you for the truth, the honest truth, and what do you do? You give it to me!”

  “W-w-well? Y-you asked f-f-for it.”

  “Son, what I was askin’ for and pleadin’ for from the very bottom of my heart was something dead to eat, and a badger would be just perfect. But no, you’ve told the truth and denied your pore old daddy the simple joy . . . son, do you really, honestly think it’s a dog?”

  “Y-yep, I d-d-do.”

  “And do you really and truly believe he blinked his eyes?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This hurts me, Junior, more than I can ex­press, but life is full of hurt.”

  “Y-y-yep, it is. Y-y-you w-want me to ch-check it out?”

  Wallace heaved a sigh. “Check it out, son. If it’s bad news, I’ll try to hold back the tears.”

  Junior leaned his neck in my direction and gave me a big buzzard smile—which, in case you haven’t seen one at close range, is about the ugliest smile you can imagine.

  “H-hello d-down there. Y-y-yoo-hoo.”

  I gave my enormous swollen head a nod. “Yoo-hoo to you too.”

  Junior turned to the old man. “S-s-s-see? H-he s-s-said y-y-y-y-yoo-hoo b-back.”

  “So? That don’t mean . . . keep a-checkin’ it out, son, he might be on his last leg.”

  Junior turned back to me. “Is that y-y-you d-d-down there, D-d-d-doggie?”

  “Yeth, it ith, Dunior.”

  He twisted his head from side to side. “M-my g-g-g-goodness, y-you sure are t-t-talking f-funny this m-m-morning.”

  “Thankth. Tho would you, if you’d been bitten on the nothe by a rittlethnake.”

  “A w-w-w-what?”

  “A rittlethnake.”

  Wallace chimed in. “A what? What was that? What did he say, son?”

  “W-well, s-s-something about r-r-riddles.”

  “Riddles? Tell him we’re busy birds, we ain’t got time for playing riddles.” Wallace glared down at me. “Play riddles on your own time, dog, we’re lookin’ for something to eat.”

  “A rittlethnake, you dumbbell buzzood!”

  Junior’s eyes grew wide with excitement. “Oh P-p-pa, I’ve g-g-got it n-now, and y-you’ll b-be s-s-so happy!”

  “Son, a squashed badger on the highway would make me happy, but what’s he talkin’ about?”

  “A r-r-rattlesnake.”

  “Okay, fine, where’s he at? In depression times, I’ll sure take a rattlesnake.”

  “N-no. Our d-d-doggie f-friend was b-b-bitten on the n-n-n . . . face by a r-r-rattlesnake.”

  The old man’s greedy little eyes popped open and a smile spread across his beak. “Son, at last you have brought joy to my heart! You have made me a happy buzzard!”

  “I t-t-told you.”

  “Yes, you did and you’re a fine boy, Junior, a fine boy, and you’ll grow up to be a fine buzzard one of these days, a credit to your family and all of buzzardhood!”

  Junior grinned and ducked his head. “Th-thanks, P-pa.”

  “And yes, this dog is our friend, our true friend, and it’s a cryin’ shame he got snakebit but a dog can’t live forever. Eh, how long do you reckon we’ll have to wait, son?”

  At that point, I’d had about all the company I could stand. I pushed myself up and gave Wallace my most menacing glare.

  “Buzz off, buzzood. Skwam. Get wost. Go fwy a kite. I may wook pwetty bad wiff this swowen nothe, but I ain’t fixing to be wunch for the wikes of you. So skat, shoo, skwam!”

  Wallace gasped. “Son, he just told us to scram. Did you hear that?”

  “Y-y-yeah.”

  “He told us to scram and he’s no friend of ours, I can tell you that, and if that’s the best he has to offer . . . dog, you have ruined my day, completely ruined my day!”

  “Good.”

  “And this is good-bye, and in parting, I want you to know that you look silly with your face all swole up, and if I looked as goofy and talked as goofy as you, I’d . . . I don’t know what I’d do, but Junior, it’s time we got airborne and started huntin’ grub!”

  With that, he pushed himself off the limb and went flapping off in the morning sky. Junior shrugged and grinned down at me.

  “W-w-well, w-win a few, l-l-lose a f-few. S-s-sometimes I think P-pa’s w-worse than a s-s-snakebite.”

  “I’ll bet. Or even a wingworm.”

  “B-b-bye, D-d-doggie. I h-hope you g-get b-b-better. Or w-w-w-worse.”

  “Thee you awound, Dunior.”

  And away he went, leaving me alone with my handicap.

  Chapter Ten: Sally May Really Cares, After All

  There was one small detail about the location of my sickbed that hadn’t occurred to me: Sally May had put it in a spot that she could see from her kitchen window.

  Do you realize what this meant? Maybe you don’t and maybe I didn’t either, but what it meant was that Sally May cared about my health, safety, and physical condition, even though she had gone to some lengths to hide her concern.

  Consider the evidence in this case. She had not allowed me into the air-conditioned comfort of her house, right? And that was . . . well, I won’t say that it was cruel and unfeeling of her. Or heartless. Callous. Cold-blooded.

  I’d be the last dog to say anything critical of my master’s wife. I know she had her priorities, and keeping her house neat and clean was high on her list—quite a bit h
igher than my personal health, safety, and well-being.

  I understood that. I accepted her just as she was, and I’d be the last dog in the world to suggest that she was, well, cruel and unfeeling, heartless, callous, and cold-blooded.

  No, you’d never catch me making critical re­marks about the very lady my master had chosen with whom to share his life. With. With whom. But her weird sense of priorities probably struck YOU as being cruel, unfeeling, and so forth, and what YOU think is important.

  Yes it is, and if YOU want to say that she had her priorities and sense of values all messed up and backward, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. It’s a free lunch.

  A free ranch, I should say.

  Freedom of speech is a precious right.

  I’m sorry you feel that way about Sally May, but just between you and me and the gatepost, there’s probably more than a germ of truth in what you’ve pointed out. And you know where I stand on the issue of germs. I’m totally against ’em.

  Germs are bad for everyone, and anything that’s bad for everyone can’t be all good.

  And where were we? Sometimes I get started on a thought, usually a deep philosogical point, and I forget whether it’s raining or Tuesday. Actually, it was sunny and Monday, and I have no idea what . . . something about Sally May . . . boy, sometimes I . . .

  Wait, I’ve got it. Okay. Here we go.

  For a while there, it appeared to YOU, not necessarily to me, it appeared to YOU that Sally May was a cruel and so forth person because she had left the wounded and suffering Head of Ranch Security outside with the flies, buzzards, and boring morons such as Drover.

  But what you forgot or never knew or didn’t notice was that she was observing me from her kitchen window, an indication that she really did care about me. And no doubt, she saw me in my state of misery—tormented by flies, roasted by the sun’s evil rays, racked or wracked by thirst, whichever way you spell it, and last but not leased, gazed upon and mocked by a pair of half-crazed graveyard buzzards.