The Case of the Dinosaur Birds

by John R. Erickson

  “I know you did. I couldn’t believe it.” He let out a snicker and whispered behind his paw, “Did you figure out what happened to your bacon?”

  I froze. Could I go on with this? Yes, I had to. “Ha ha. I did, Pete, and I’ve got to hand it to you, pal, that may have been the best joke you’ve ever pulled.”

  He sputtered with laughter. “Right under your nose!”

  Speaking of my nose, at that very moment it was trying to point itself at the cat like the barrel of a gun. With great effort, I moved it away from the, uh, target. “Boy, what a silly goose I was! Ha ha. Great prank, Pete, you win first prize. And you know what, Pete?” I turned an innocent gaze toward the clouds above. “I deserved it. I had it coming.”

  He stared at me with hooded eyes. “Oh, really?”

  “No kidding, I’m being sincere. In fact . . . hey, Pete, here’s an idea. Why don’t we go for a walk and, you know, talk and laugh about old times, huh? Just the two of us. What do you think?”

  The end of his tail began to twitch. “You’re not bitter?”

  “Bitter? Me?” I almost choked, trying to keep a growl from roaring up my throat. “Not at all. No, I think it’s important that we, uh, see the humor in our various life experiences and . . . well, share them together.”

  Oops. My lips were twitching again. This was tough, but my plan seemed to be working.

  Kitty stared at me with his weird yellow eyes. “You know, Hankie, I’m amazed. You seem to have undergone a complete transformation.”

  “Right, and you know, Pete, it was time for a change. I mean, a guy can’t spend his whole life being angry and bitter, know what I mean? I lost, you won, it’s history, and, hey, let’s go for a little stroll and share a few laughs. What do you say?”

  “Well, Hankie, this seems to be the dawning of a new day.”

  “Right, exactly, and that’s a great way of putting it.”

  “But Hankie, I have one concern. May I confide in you?”

  “Oh, sure, you bet. Hey, that’s what friends are for.”

  He motioned for me to move closer to the fence, so that my ear was only inches away from his cheating little . . . uh, from his mouth, let us say. And he whispered, “Hankie, I smell a rat.”

  “A rat? You mean, like a rodent rat?”

  “No, no. It’s more of a canine rat.”

  “A canine rat? That’s odd. ‘Canine’ means ‘dog,’ right?”

  “Um-hm. Watch this.”

  Before my very eyes, he took a big gulp of air, humped his back, opened his mouth wide, and HISSED in my face! And what was I supposed to do, sit there and be Mister Doggie Wonderful? No way. I had been bushwhacked, so naturally I . . . well, I barked. And we’re talking about deep, manly barks.

  Oops.

  I watched in complete amazement as the treacherous little hickocrip began limping in circles, dragging one leg and moaning in a pitiful voice. “He bit me, I’m wounded! Sally May, help me!”

  Uh-oh. Sally May launched herself off the porch like a rocket, scattering carrot peelings in all directions. “Hank, leave the cat alone, you big bully!”

  Huh? Me?

  I beamed her Looks of Sainthood and went to Slow Wags on the tail section.

  Leave the cat alone? I hadn’t laid a paw on the little snake! This was all show business, a shabby little circus that was intended to get me in deep . . . oh, brother, here she came, storming in my direction.

  For one brief moment, I considered standing my ground and arguing my case in the Court of Sally May, using all of my many gifts of persuasion: Sincere Wags, Sad Ears, and Looks of Remorse. But something about her manner convinced me that things had gotten out of hand. Maybe it was the steam hissing out of her ears.

  Anyway, it came to me in a flash that the only honorable solution to this crisis was to . . . well, run.

  I sold the farm and ran, but managed to fire off one last shot over my shoulder. “Pete, you’ll pay for this!”

  Exactly how or when he would pay wasn’t clear at that desperate moment, but at least I had gotten the last shot. In the larger scheme of things, you could even say that I had managed to snatch a moral victory out of the rubble of . . . phooey.

  This was turning out to be a very bad day for the Security Division.

  Chapter Eleven: Double Trouble

  I ran with no particular destination in mind. My only thought was to get far away from Sally May and her rotten little cat. Oh, and from Drover too. The thought of spending another minute with the King of Slackers was almost as dreadful as the prospect of getting thrashed by Sally May’s broom.

  I mean, let’s face it. Drover had dared to make an intelligent decision on the field of battle (he ran before things got out of hand), and . . . well, I didn’t feel emotionally prepared to deal with that. Maybe later, but not now.

  I ran south as fast as I could go and didn’t slow down until I reached the underbrush along the creek. There the brush closed around me like a dark curtain, and I was able to stop and catch my breath. And . . . might as well be honest here . . . I was able to pout and feel sorry for myself.

  Why not? Didn’t I deserve a pity party? Of course I did. I not only deserved it, but I had nothing else to do for the next . . . however long it took for Sally May to get over her latest Volcanic Moment.

  Boy, it sure didn’t take much to get her on the warpath. And what really broke my heart was that I had tried SO HARD to please her. Oh well.

  I was in the midst of feeling sorry for myself when my thoughts were interrupted by . . . what was that? A voice? Yes, unless my ears were playing tricks on me, I had heard a voice coming from the other side of the curtain of brush, perhaps from the creek.

  And here’s what the voice said: “Now, Momma, just try to stay calm. I’ll talk to ’em, and we’ll get everything straightened out.”

  Then another voice said, “Freddy, you can’t talk to a wolf!”

  “Momma, I’ll handle it. You just be still, hear?”

  You know, there was something familiar about those voices, and did you notice the names they used? Momma and Freddy. Hadn’t I run into somebody named . . .

  Wait, hold everything! You probably missed the clues, but I didn’t. It was those birds again, the pelicans! I had given them strict orders to leave my ranch, but they were still hanging around. And they were fixing to feel the wrath of the Security Division. By George, I’d taken my lumps from the cat, but I didn’t have to take trash off a couple of skinny-legged pelicans.

  I plowed my way through the wall of brush and burst out into the clearing, and there they were, two ridiculous birds standing out in the middle of the creek.

  I announced my presence in a loud voice. “Hank the Cowdog, Special Crimes. You’re all under arrest! Freeze, nobody moves!”

  Heh heh. That gave ’em a scare. When I announce myself in that voice, it always gets their attention. To tell you the truth, it’s kind of fun to go busting into the middle of somebody’s party; and believe me, those birds were shocked.

  After a moment of dead silence, Momma said, “It’s that dog again.”

  Freddy swallowed a lump in his throat. “Momma, be still, I’ll do the talking.”

  I marched up to the water’s edge. “Freddy, I thought I told you to clear out of here.”

  “Yes sir, we tried; but you know, I think we just flew in a big circle and Momma was getting tired and, well, here we are again. We was kind of hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

  “How foolish of you. Fishing? Is that what we have here, fishing without a license, without permission? It’s called trespassing, and you’re in big trouble.”

  “Yes, well, we’ve got other troubles too.”

  I noticed that Freddy was doing something with his eyes, jerking them toward the south, and one of his wing tips seemed to be pointing in the same direction. I let my gaze drift t
o the south and . . . uh-oh.

  Okay, remember that Momma said something about “a wolf”? I hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time, and all at once I wished I had, because . . . you’ll never guess who or whom I saw standing on the opposite side of the creek.

  Here’s a couple of hints: big dudes, scruffy, large spiky teeth, and glittering yellow eyes.

  Holy smokes, it was Rip and Snort, the cannibal brothers! They were standing on the other side of the creek, tuning up for a song. No kidding. You might remember that they had terrible voices but loved to sing. You want to hear it? Okay, brace yourself.

  Cannibal Trash

  I guess you think we ain’t wonderful singers.

  You might even think that we can’t rhyme verses.

  Well, maybe we can’t, and we really don’t care.

  We sing what we want and beat up our critics.

  And now that you know about cannibal music,

  You’d better shut up and listen real good.

  ’Cause some of you think that we’re pretty rude guys,

  But down where it counts . . . you’re right; we are rude.

  Trash, trash, cannibal trash.

  And if you don’t like it, we’ll give you a bash.

  Our smell is so awful, it causes a rash.

  We’re proud to announce that we’re cannibal trash.

  The wimmen all love us and think we are cool.

  We learned all our manners at cannibal school.

  They love our aroma and deep, manly odor.

  The fragrance of skunk is the gas in our motor.

  I bet this song has opened your eyes,

  ’Cause now you know we’re the coolest of guys.

  So tune up your tonsils and join in our noise.

  Just sing like a couple of junior high boys.

  Trash, trash, cannibal trash.

  And if you don’t like it, we’ll give you a bash.

  Our smell is so awful, it causes a rash.

  We’re proud to announce, really proud to announce,

  We’re proud to announce that we’re cannibal trash.

  Well, what can you say? Rip and Snort had always been drawn to trashy songs, and this one sure proved it. But what worried me was that after they finished the song, they pointed toward the pelicans and started licking their chops.

  I lowered my voice to an urgent whisper. “Hey, Freddy, you’ve got a serious problem—two of them, in fact.”

  He nodded. “Right. I was fixing to talk to ’em when you popped out of the brush.” He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “They look kind of hungry, don’t they?”

  “They’re always hungry . . . and very dangerous. I know them pretty well.”

  “You don’t reckon they’d eat a pelican, do you?”

  “I think I know the answer, but let me check.” I turned to the brothers and forced up a pleasant smile. “Hey, Rip, Snort! How’s it going, fellas?”

  Snort gave me a sour look. “Fellas going hungry.”

  “Yes, well, at the end of the day, we’re all working for our stomachs, aren’t we? Ha ha.” They didn’t laugh or even smile. “Say, this weather’s been nice, hasn’t it?” No response. “Hey, how’s the family? Kids are growing up, I guess.” Dead silence. “You know, it’s hard to carry on a conversation with someone who doesn’t talk.”

  “Rip and Snort not give a hoot for conservation. Ready to eat two gooses.” He pointed toward Freddy and his mother.

  “Snort, they’re not geese.”

  “Gooses.”

  “They’re not gooses either. They’re pelicans from the Gulf of Mexico, and they just popped in for a little visit. I gave them permission to swim in my creek, don’t you see, and, well, here they are. In other words, we have some guests from out of town, and I’m sure you’ll agree that we shouldn’t go around eating our guests.”

  The brothers roared with irreverent laughter.

  I turned to Freddy. “You need to get out of here.”

  He pulled his chin and wagged his head. “Well, I hear what you’re saying, but Momma’s worn plumb out, and she’s got authoritis in her shoulder.”

  I leaned out toward him. “Hey, Freddy, if those coyotes decide to eat you, which they will, your momma won’t have to worry about her shoulder because there won’t be anything left of her but feathers. You need to leave, real quick.”

  “Well, let me see what she says.” He turned to his mother. “Momma, Hank thinks we need to move along.”

  She shot me a hot glare. “Is he the one that called me an old fossil? You tell him to stick his head in a bucket of grease! I’m tired, and I ain’t moving.”

  Freddy turned back to me. “She’s feeling a little crabby right now. Maybe you could talk to her.”

  “Me? Hey, pal, we tried that once and I’ve still got knots on my head. Remember that?”

  He rocked up and down on his toes. “She’s pretty set in her ways, all right.”

  This looked hopeless. Those birds had no more common sense than a chicken . . . and why was I even trying to help them? I couldn’t think of a single reason, not one. Thoughts swirled through my mind, then . . .

  “Wait. I’ve got an idea. Pelicans catch fish, right?”

  “Oh yeah, we’re good fishers.” A dreamy smile swept over his beak. “Did I ever tell you about the time I scooped up a barracuda? Big rascal and, boy, you talk about bite!”

  “Freddy, hush. Concentrate. Catch a fish. Now.”

  “Now? Well, I guess I could try. Let me see what I can find.”

  He looked down into the creek, walked a few steps, and drove his snoot into the water. When his beak came up again . . . my goodness, the lower part had become a kind of basket, and it seemed to have something flopping around inside.

  Freddy beamed with pride and spoke with his mouth full. “I got one!”

  “Great. Hang onto it.” I turned toward the coyote brothers. “Hey, guys, I’ve got some great news. How do you feel about fresh fish?”

  The brothers exchanged puzzled looks. “Not feel nothing for fretch fitch. Not give a hoot for fretch fitch.”

  “Actually, Snort, fish is very good for you. It’s low in fat and high in all that other stuff that’s good for you: vitamins and minerals, protoplasm, ectoplasm—all the good stuff.”

  “Ha. Coyote not give a hoot about vallamins and miserables. Coyote only care about MEAT!”

  I turned to Freddy. “Throw the fish up on the bank, and we’ll see what they do.”

  Freddy nodded and whipped his beak around, flinging a nice big catfish onto the bank in front of the brotherhood. The fish flopped around in front of them. Snort moved closer and took a sniff.

  “Uh. Fretch fitch stink.”

  I had to think fast. “Well, of course it stinks, and that’s what makes it the perfect coyote food. You guys stink, right?”

  The brothers traded grins. “Ha! Brothers stink pretty good and proud of it too!”

  “Well, there you go. You’ll love fish, give it a try.”

  Snort grumbled something under his breath and eased his nose toward the fish. He licked his chops and opened his bear trap jaws and . . . BLAP! The fish smacked him across the chops.

  Snort beamed me a ferocious glare. “Stupid fretch fitch slap Snort face!”

  “Well, it’s a fish, what do you expect? Just bull your way through and gobble it down.”

  Snort glared down at the fish. “Dummy not get away from Snort, ho ho.” The bear trap opened wide; Snort scooped up the fish and slammed his jaws shut. He grinned and started chewing. Suddenly his eyes popped wide-open. He stopped chewing and spit the fish out on the bank. “Fretch fitch sting Snort mouth!”

  Oops. I had forgotten that catfish have sharp fins on their backs and sides, and when they stab something, it hurts.

&nb
sp; Well, Snort was mad now. He pounded his chest and roared, “Rip and Snort not waste time with dummy fretch fitch! Ready to eat goose, oh, boy!”

  I whirled back to Freddy. “That’s it, pal, I’m out of ideas. When they start saying ‘Oh, boy,’ it means they’re ready to eat. You need to leave. Hurry, fly up into one of those trees.”

  Freddy’s face settled into a mournful look. “Momma hates trees. They hurt her feet.”

  I dashed out into the water and screamed in his face. “You’re thinking about her feet? Idiot! Those guys are cannibals, and they’re fixing to eat you! Get out of here; fly away!”

  He flinched. “Well, let me talk to Momma.”

  Over on the south bank, Rip and Snort were going through their normal warm-up procedures—pounding their chests, roaring, pawing up dirt, and butting their heads against trees. It sent shivers down my spine, but do you suppose the dingbat pelicans showed the slightest concern?

  None. Zero. I stared in amazement as they stood there in the middle of the creek—kind, patient Freddy trying to talk sense to his mother, who stood like a statue with her wings folded across her chest. She was listening but hearing nothing.

  And time was running out. Oh well, I had tried to help. Sometimes we can save the helpless, and sometimes they become stastisticks . . . stustisticks . . . phooey. Some of them become snacks for cannibals. There wasn’t a thing I could do to help.

  Just as I had feared, Rip and Snort finished their warm-ups and turned their fearsome yellow eyes toward the birds. They swept long, red tongues across their mouths and then . . .

  Here they came, pounding through the shallow water like racehorses, sending a spray of water flying in all directions. Helpless on the north bank, I could only watch the massacre unfoil. I had a feeling that it would be a pretty short massacre.

  Snort got there first. His jaws were wide-open, his shark teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun. I cringed, waiting to hear . . . I didn’t even want to think about it.

  WHOP!

  Huh? Remember that Momma Pelican was “worn plumb out” and had arthritis in her shoulder? Well, she got over it. In a flash, she cocked back her wing and gave Snort a whack across the nose that almost sent his head underwater. Then she squawked, “You nasty old thing, don’t you be making teeth at me!”