The Case of the Twisted Kitty
John R. Erickson
Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes
Maverick Books, Inc.
Publication Information
MAVERICK BOOKS
Published by Maverick Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070
Phone: 806.435.7611
www.hankthecowdog.com
First published in the United States of America by Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2004.
Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2012
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Copyright © John R. Erickson, 2004
All rights reserved
Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-143-8
Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Dedication
For a couple of new granddaughters: Alyssa Erickson and ReAnna Wilson
Contents
Chapter One Drover’s Violent Fantasies
Chapter Two The Winter Ski Patrol
Chapter Three Pete and I Become Friends
Chapter Four Special Escort Duty
Chapter Five Monster Woman Invades the Ranch
Chapter Six We Are the Victims of Treachery
Chapter Seven The Geothermal Procedure
Chapter Eight Pete Captures the Deep Freeze
Chapter Nine Our Clever Plan to Defeat the Cat
Chapter Ten Justice Strikes the Cat
Chapter Eleven I Win the Heart of Sally May at Last!
Chapter Twelve Our Final Triumph Over the Cat
Chapter One: Drover’s Violent Fantasies
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. The mystery began in the depths of Panhandle winter, as I recall. Yes, January to be exact, the darkest, coldest month of the year. It was in the cold, dark month of January that I delivered Pete the Barncat his most crushing defeat . . . ever.
Remember Pete? He’s your typical cat: arrogant, selfish, and not so smart. Keeping him humble and off balance is one of my most important jobs on this outfit, and I’m proud to report . . . well, you’ll see.
I’ll say only that the Cause of Justice was served. Pete got exactly what I deserved.
Where were we? Oh yes, January. In January, the ordinary routine of the Security Division is interrupted by snow, howling winds, and frigid temperatures, as we dogs struggle just to get through the day. It isn’t a month when we complete many investigations or invent new techniques for protecting our ranch. However . . .
You’ll be amazed by this. Would you believe that during this particular January, I succeeded in inventing a revolutionary new technique for escorting vehicles off the ranch? It’s true, and here’s the very first news bulletin on how that happened.
Okay, let’s back up a little bit and set the stage. A cold morning in January. Four inches of snow on the ground. Roads slippery and hazardous. All the trees and sagebrush were covered with a layer of frost.
Some dogs might have said it was a pretty winter scene. Not me. What’s pretty when your gunnysack bed is frozen stiff? What’s pretty when you have to tramp around in the snow, just to keep your gizzard from freezing solid?
That’s what we were doing, Drover and I, the Elite Troops of the Security Division. We were tramping through ranch headquarters, trying to keep from being frozen into solid blocks of doggie protoplasm, following frozen dog trails that had been previously pressed into the snow by our feet.
As you might expect, Drover was moaning and whining every step of the way. “Oh Hank, I’m so cold! I’m not sure I can walk another step. My paws are freezing.”
“Then sit down in the snow and see how you like that.”
“No, ’cause then my paws would feel better but my tail would be cold.”
“I guess you’ll have to choose: cold paws or cold tail.”
“I’d rather choose between warm paws and warm tail.”
“Fine, Drover. It’s your life. Choose anything you want, but quit moaning and complaining.”
“I think I’ll choose . . . warm paws.”
“Great.”
We continued our march through headquarters. My paws were freezing, but did I moan and groan and make a spectacle of myself? No sir. When a guy has risen through the ranks and has taken over the job of Head of Ranch Security, he leaves the pampered life behind and learns to endure every sort of pain and discomfort. It goes with the job. We take the very worst that the weather can throw at us and . . .
Boy, my feet were frigid! I quickened my pace and tried to ignore the misery. It was then that I suddenly realized . . . Drover had stopped moaning and whining. I tossed a glance over my shoulder and was shocked to see that he was wearing a silly grin.
I halted the column. “Halt! Drover, we are conducting a march over frozen snow and brutal terrain, yet I notice that you’re wearing a silly grin on your face. Would you care to explain yourself?”
His eyes came into focus. “Oh, hi. Were you talking to me?”
“Of course I was talking to you. To who or whom else would I be speaking?”
“Well . . .”
“Hurry up, I’m freezing. Answer the question.”
“Well . . . I don’t remember the question.”
I searched for patience. “All right, one more time, and please pay attention.”
“I’m all ears.”
I narrowed my eyes and studied the little mutt. “What? You ‘maul ears’? Is that what you just said?”
“No, I said, I’m all ears.”
“Right. That’s what I said you said.”
“No, you said I maul ears, but I said I’m all ears.”
“Exactly. And is it true?”
“Well . . . I guess so . . . sure. I’m all ears.”
“Ah! There it is again.” This was something new and puzzling. I began pacing, as I often do when my mind has been activated to a higher level of performance. “Tell this court exactly what you mean when you say, ‘I maul ears.’ What types of ears are we talking about?”
“Well, let’s see.” He rolled his eyes around. “Just plain old ears. Dog ears.”
“Aha! Dog ears. I’m beginning to see a pattern here.”
“Yeah, ’cause ears hear. And we’re dogs.”
“Exactly. The clues are beginning to pile up.” I stopped pacing and whirled around to face him. “Drover, has it occurred to you that mauling suggests brawling?”
“No, but they rhyme.”
“They rhyme, but never mind.”
“That rhymes too. Almost.”
“Please stop talking about rhymes and listen carefully to my analysis of your problem.”
“Gosh, I didn’t know I had a problem.”
“Of course you have problem, a very serious one.” I marched over to him and looked deeply into his eyes. “Don’t you get it? Mauling and brawling suggest an alarming shift toward aggressive behavior. Could it be that a little rebellious streak has suddenly burst out into the open?”
“Well . . .”
“D
on’t argue with me. Just look at the clues and follow the evidence. Yesterday, you were a happy little mutt. Today, you’re talking about getting into fights and tearing the ears off your fellow dogs. What’s happened, Drover? What has brought on this plunge into fantasies of violence?”
He stared at me for a moment, then grinned. “You know, I think you misunderstood what I said.”
“Oh, so that’s it. Now you’re blaming me, huh? You’re in the Nile, Drover, and you’re in water over your head. For once in your life, face the truth.”
“I said I was ALL EARS. That’s all I said, honest.”
“Huh? You said . . .” I marched a few steps away and tried to absorb this latest piece of news. “Let me get this straight. You said you were all ears?”
“Yep, that’s what I said. I was ready to hear your question.”
“You said nothing about brawling or fighting or tearing the ears off your fellow dogs?”
“Nope. You know me. I’m scared of fights.”
“So . . . I might have . . . well, misunderstood your words?”
“I guess so.”
I took a big gulp of air and let it hiss slowly out of my lungs. “So . . . this whole conversation has been more or less . . . pointless?”
“Looks that way to me.”
I eased over to him and laid a paw on his shoulder. “Drover, I think it would be wise for us to keep this conversation . . . well, a secret between the two of us. Don’t you agree?”
“Well . . .”
“Good. I mean, we must do everything possible to protect the good name of the Security Division. If word ever leaked out that we were carrying on a loony conversation, it would do our cause no good. I’m sure you agree.”
“Well . . .”
“Thanks, soldier. There just might be a little promotion in this.”
“Oh goodie! A promotion! When?”
“Later. Now let’s get out of here.”
And with that, we re-formed our column and resumed our march through ranch headquarters, holding our heads and tails at proud angles. Once again, we had overcome the forces of . . .
I came to a sudden stop and turned to Drover. “Wait a second. You said you were ‘all ears’ and waiting to hear my question. What was the question?”
“Well . . . I don’t remember, ’cause you didn’t ask it.”
“Hmmm. Good point.” I furrowed my brow and probed the depths of my memory. Suddenly it came to me. “Ah, yes. We were marching along on frozen feet. I glanced back and saw that you were wearing a silly grin. The question is, Drover, when it’s so cold and miserable out here, why were you grinning?”
The silly grin returned. “Oh yeah. See, you said I had to choose between having cold feet and a cold tail, but I gave myself a third choice.”
“This isn’t making sense. Hurry up.”
“I gave myself the choice of having warm feet, and that’s the one I chose. Now I feel warm and happy. Are you proud of me?”
I gazed into the abyss of his eyes and found myself wondering . . . never mind. There’s no future in wondering about Drover. He’s . . . odd. Oh well. If he wanted to believe he had warm feet, if that brought a ray of happiness into his boring little life, that was fine with me.
We resumed our march through ranch headquarters. My feet had turned into blocks of ice but I didn’t dare mention it or complain. Drover had ruined that option with his . . . never mind.
That’s a weird little mutt.
We haven’t come to the good part yet, my new technique for escorting vehicles out of ranch headquarters, but it’s coming right up. Just be patient.
Chapter Two: The Winter Ski Patrol
Where were we? Oh yes, we were marching through headquarters on frozen feet, except Drover’s feet weren’t frozen. They were warm because he had chosen to believe they were warm, and that’s pretty strange.
As we reached the southwest corner of the machine shed, I cast a glance down toward the house and noticed a very interesting detail. Sally May’s car was parked beside the yard gate and the motor was running. It appeared that the car was being warmed up, almost as though someone were preparing to make some kind of trip or journey—perhaps into town.
But why would Sally May be going to town on such a cold and blustery day? This needed to be checked out and I was just the dog for the job.
Have I mentioned that I’m Head of Ranch Security? I am, and very little happens on this ranch that I’m not aware of. If Sally May was thinking of driving into town on snack-poked roads . . . snow-packed roads, let us say, then I needed to check out the car and, you know, make sure everything was ready for the trip.
I gave the signal to turn our column in an easterly direction and we picked our way down the icy . . . PLOP. Oops, I slipped. We inched our way down the . . . PLOP . . . we made our way down the stupid hill which was a solid sheet of ice, don’t you see, and the footing was very . . . PLOP . . . treacherous. No dog on earth could have made it down that icy slope without . . . PLOP . . .
Phooey. I stopped trying to walk and skied the last ten feet to the bottom of the slope. This was no big deal. Have we discussed our Winter Ski Patrol? Maybe not. See, the Security Division has its own Winter Ski Patrol and during periods of snowy weather, we activate WSP. And, well, I’m the leader. Maybe you’re shocked that a ranch dog could have mastered all the skills required to glide down an icy slope, but let me remind you that . . . PLOP.
I made it to the bottom of the hill, is the point. There, I picked myself up off the . . . that is, I turned my skis to the side and negotiated a perfect sliding plop . . . a perfect slopping stop, that is, while Drover skidded down the hill with no more grace than a cow on a frozen pond.
Once I had reached level ground, I marched straight over to Sally May’s car and began making a thorough check of all the . . . HUH? A cat?
A smirking purring cat was sitting beside the yard gate. Would you care to guess who or whom it might have been? The main clue here is “smirking” and you’ve probably guessed Pete the Barncat. “Smirking” gives it away, doesn’t it? It’s one of the few things Pete does well. He never does any work on the place, but he seldom misses a chance to smirk.
And it drives me nuts.
I stopped in my tracks and beamed him a look we call “Nails and Broken Glass.” The purpose of the N&BG is to throw a scare into the cat and melt that smirk off his mouth. It didn’t work, so I lifted Tooth Shields and showed him two rows of sharp deadly fangs.
“Don’t smirk at me, Kitty. I’m not in the mood for it.”
“But Hankie, I wasn’t smirking. I was just . . . smiling. Do you know why?”
A rumble began echoing in the caverns of my throat. “I don’t know why, I don’t care why, and I don’t have time to waste talking to you.”
He batted his eyes. “I watched you coming down the hill, Hankie, and it was . . .” He snorted a laugh. “. . . very entertaining.”
Did I have time for this? No, but don’t forget the Security Division’s Shining Motto: “Do unto others but don’t take trash off the cats.” It had become obvious that Pete was leading us toward a Trash Situation.
Would I back down? Ignore him? Walk away? No sir. The time to deal with a trash-talking cat is when he starts tracking tosh. Talking trash. Give ’em an inch and they’ll take every nickel.
I swaggered over to him and stuck my nose in his face. “Do yourself a favor, Pete, and buzz off. Otherwise, I can’t be held responsible for what happens.”
He unfurled his long pink tongue and started licking himself on the left front paw. Right front paw. Who cares? He was licking a paw with his right front tongue, and I’m sure he knew how much it annoyed me.
“But Hankie, I’m just sitting here, minding my own business.”
“Ha! Minding your own business? You expect me to believe that? You were spying on us,
Pete. You might as well come clean and admit it.”
“Well, I did watch you . . .” He snickered. “. . . stumble and bumble down the hill.”
“There, you see? You’ve proved my case. You were spying. If you had been minding your own business, you wouldn’t have noticed that I . . . whatever you called it.”
“Stumbled and bumbled down the hill.”
“That’s it. But for your information, Kitty, I didn’t stungle and bungle. I was skiing down the slope.”
“Oh really?”
“That’s correct. If you’re going to be a snoop, get the facts straight.”
He stopped licking his paw and stared at me with his big yellow eyes. “I didn’t notice any skis, Hankie. You came down the hill on your hiney.”
“Of course I did. If you knew anything about winter sports, you’d know that Hiney Skiing is one of the most difficult of all skiing techniques. There aren’t more than three or four dogs in the whole world who can do it right. Just ask Drover.” I whirled around to my assistant. “Drover, tell this poor ignorant cat about Hiney Skiing.”
Drover’s gaze drifted down from the sky. “Oh, hi. Were you talking to me?”
“Will you please pay attention? Tell Pete about Hiney Skiing.”
“Hiney Seeing? Well, if you want to see your hiney, you have to look behind you. I guess.”
I gave him a ferocious glare. “Why do I bother trying to involve you in my business?”
“Well, you said . . .”
“Never mind, Drover. I’m sorry I asked.” I whirled back to the cat. “Disregard everything Drover says.” I whirled back to Drover. “This will go into my report.”
“Gosh, did I do something wrong?”
“When we’re conducting an interrogation of the cat, I expect you to stay alert and pay attention. You were staring off into space.”
“No, I was looking at the clouds.”
“All right, you were looking at the clouds. The point is that when I asked you to confirm what I said about Hiney Skiing, you failed to do it.”
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