The of the Booby-Trapped Pickup

by John R. Erickson

  “That’s right, and you know what that means?”

  “Uh . . . no. What does it mean?”

  “It means”—he leaned toward us—“that you guys better stay away from my donuts. I saw you staring at ’em.”

  “Actually, pal, we’re not even sure what donuts are. Maybe you can tell us.”

  “Sweet pastries. They’re great. Dogs love ’em, but you can’t have any. Hee hee hee.”

  “Oh yeah? What makes you so sure about that?”

  He tapped himself on the chest. “I do security for Trejo’s Donut Delights.”

  I snorted a laugh. “Really! You’re guarding a load of pastries?”

  “Yeah. Fifteen dozen. Is that funny?”

  I burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, pal, but yes, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard since you said you were a rottweiler.”

  He held his head at a haughty angle. “Oh yeah? Well, check this out, country boy. Two months ago, I sent two cowdogs and one collie to the hospital. Last week, I karate-chopped a boxer dog in two. Yesterday morning, I whipped, and we’re talking mauled, a couple of Great Danes. They were trying to mess with Tom Trejo’s donuts. When the ambulance came to pick ’em up, nobody was laughing.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, hear this: ha, ha, ha, ha! What do you think of that, huh?”

  The little mutt shrugged. “I think you’re dumb, like all the others. Dumb dogs always laugh. Then they die laughing.”

  I winked at Drover. “Wooooo! Hey, this is getting better and better. You know, for a pipsqueak, you sure talk a lot of trash.”

  “Yeah, but I back it up, dude. You don’t believe me? Jump out that window. I dare you.”

  HUH? I took a closer look at him. “Maybe I didn’t hear you right. Did you just dare me to jump out the window?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This window right here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just jump out on the ground, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yeah, and let’s make it a Double-Dog Dare.”

  Behind me, I heard Drover say, “Git ’im, Hankie, git ’im!”

  My goodness, it appeared that events were rushing us toward a confrontation. I squared my enormous shoulders and gave the shrimp a look of purest steel. “Okay, pal, now you’ve done it. You should never challenge a ranch dog unless you’re ready to face the consequences. Drover, hop down there and let’s get this over with.”

  Drover gasped and shrank back. “Me! Are you crazy?”

  We moved away from the window so that we could conduct our business in private. “What’s the problem? He’s bluffing. He’s just a little shrimp with a big mouth.”

  “If he’s such a shrimp, how come he’s guarding fifteen thousand donuts?”

  “It’s only fifteen dozen.”

  “Yeah, but he said he cut a dog in half with a karate chop!”

  “So what? It’s cheap talk. Drover, I’m thinking of your career. This would give you a chance to advance up the ladder of success. It’s a great opportunity.”

  “Yeah, but you know this old leg of mine. It’s killing me.”

  “Oh, brother. Drover, you’re behaving like a selfish, chickenhearted little creep. I’m ashamed of you.”

  “Me too, so why don’t you do it?”

  “Huh? Well, I . . .” I studied Bear through the windshield. “He looks very confident, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah. It makes me wonder. Maybe he really is a rottweiler.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “A miniature rottweiler.”

  “Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Drover was trembling now. “I’ve heard about those guys. They’re double tough. Triple tough.”

  My mind was racing. “Drover, something very strange is going on here, and it all boils down to one crucial question: Do we dare risk the Head of Ranch Security over something as trivial as a dare and a donut?”

  “Heck yes. I’m starved.”

  “What?”

  “I said, heck no.”

  “I agree. Until we can gather more information on this situation, we have no choice but to follow the . . . uh . . . Path of Maturity.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Exactly. We’re going to sit this one out. We just can’t risk it.”

  It was tough, let me tell you. In order to follow the Path of Maturity, we had to sit there and listen to that mouthy little . . . whatever he was . . . as he strutted back and forth, yelling, “We’re number one! We’re number one!” He gave us monkey ears, crossed his eyes, and even stuck out his tongue at us. He laughed, he sneered, he mocked us, he taunted us, he called us chickens and cowards and yellow-bellied country bumpkins.

  And we had to sit there and take it. The entire Security Division was plunged into gloom. Never had we sunk so low. But then . . .

  Chapter Five: The Donut Fiasco

  The shop door opened and out walked the owner of the red pickup—Tom Trejo. He was no longer carrying the box of donuts, so I took this to mean that he had delivered them to the mechanics in the shop and was ready to leave.

  On that small point, I happened to be wrong. Instead of climbing into the pickup, he walked up to the window and said (this is a direct quote), he said, “Hi, Poodzie. You doing okay?”

  Drover and I exchanged glances of astonishment. POODZIE? The twerp had given us a phony name and was operating under a false identity! His name wasn’t Bear and he was no more rottweiler than I was.

  Then the little fraud flew into Tom’s arms, licked his face, and yipped with joy—exactly the sort of behavior you’d expect from a sniveling poodle. Then Tom said, “I’m talking with some of the boys. I’ll be a while.” His dark eyes moved to us. “Are those dogs bothering you?” Tom came lumbering over to our pickup, rested his elbows on the window ledge, and leaned inside. “Don’t be messing with my poodle. He’s got the sniffles.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “And don’t even think about getting into my donuts.”

  Yes sir.

  He turned on his heel, blew a kiss to Poodzie, and disappeared inside the building. The instant we heard the door shut behind him, Drover and I gave each other a nod, rose to our respective feet (he rose to his, I rose to mine), and swaggered over to the open window. Poodzie Poodle was admiring his toenails.

  “Poodzie, huh? That’s a long way from Bear.”

  He curled his lip. “So? I can call myself anything I want.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got another name for you: Catfish Bait.”

  Behind me, I heard Drover giggle. “Oh, good shot!”

  Poodzie–Catfish Bait made a sour face. “You’re so crude, I’m not even going to talk to you.” He looked the other way.

  “Ouch! Boy, that really hurt, Poodzie, but we need to talk.”

  “Go away.”

  “About that Double-Dog Dare you threw down a while ago? I think I’ll take you up on it.”

  His head snapped around and he stared at me with wide eyes. “Don’t you . . . I’m a black belt in Dog Karate, I’m not kidding.”

  I gave Drover a wink and hopped out the window. When my feet hit the ground, I could hear a gust of air rushing into the poodle’s lungs. He squeaked, “Oh, you’re going to get it now, you’re really going to get it!” I took a step toward him. “Okay, one more step, dude!” I took one more step. “You’re asking for it!” I took another step, and this time he let out a scream. “Help! Murder! He’s going to hurt me!”

  He vanished inside the cab of the pickup. I flashed Drover a wink, swaggered over to the red pickup, and hopped my front paws up on the window ledge. Inside, I could see Poodzie pressed against the door, quivering and moaning.

  “Hey, Poodzie, didn’t you say you had some fresh donuts in the back?”

  He let out another screech. “Go away! Tom, help! There’s f
ive of ’em, they’re beating me up! Help!”

  “Well, I want you to pay close attention, son, because we’re fixing to eat your donuts, every one of ’em.”

  “Don’t you dare! Tom!”

  I headed for the back of the red pickup. As I was passing the window of our pickup, I saw that Drover was enjoying the show. “Okay, son, it’s time for us to go to work. We’ve got fifteen dozen donuts to eat, and not much time.”

  “You mean . . . ”

  “I mean you said you were starving, so let’s eat.”

  His grin faded. “You know . . . I’m not as hungry as I thought. You go ahead.”

  “Fine, whatever you think. You’ll be sorry, of course.”

  I marched around to the rear of Poodzie’s pickup, went into the Deep Crouch Formation, and flew over the end gate as gracefully as a . . .

  SMUSH!

  . . . deer, but landed right in the middle of stack of boxes, sending them clattering in all directions and releasing a powerful cloud of . . . sniff, sniff . . . WOW! Holy smokes, you talk about a great smell. One donut smells wonderful, but fifteen dozen . . . and I mean they were scattered all across the bed of the pickup!

  The circuits in my Nosetory Scanners just melted. I hardly knew where to begin, so I just . . . well, snagged the nearest donut and wolfed it down.

  Oh, mercy me! Oh, donut delight! They were as soft as a cloud, as sweet as a dream. Hey, Tom Trejo was more than a good cook. He was an artist with dough! This was Doggie Paradise! I wolfed and chewed and swallowed, wolfed and chewed and swallowed.

  See, I knew we were on a time clock, so to speak, and I wanted to . . . a door opening? Footsteps? It didn’t matter, I didn’t care what happened. Let ’em send me to prison, let ’em shoot me! Whatever they did, I would go out a happy dog.

  “Hank!”

  Hey, don’t bother me now, I’ve still got ten dozen left!

  “HANK!”

  Suddenly I felt myself . . . well, skidding backward, you might say, almost as though some mysterious force were pulling me by the . . . someone was pulling me by the tail! Pulling me away from my precious cargo of golden puffy . . . I could hear my claws scraping across the bed of the pickup.

  No, no, don’t do this to me!

  Next thing I knew, I was locked in the rough embrace of . . . someone . . . an angry scarecrow in cowboy clothes . . . okay, it was Slim. And he looked . . . uh . . .

  “Hank, what in the cat hair are you doing!”

  Well, I . . . there were fifteen boxes of donuts, see, and they smelled so wonderful . . . and nobody was guarding them . . . okay, a pipsqueak poodle, but for the most part, they were . . . uh . . . all alone back there, and I just thought . . .

  Oh, brother. I reached toward the control panel of my mind and started throwing switches: Looks of Remorse; Mournful Wags on the tail section; Eyes of Tragedy. And then, to beef up the presentation, I switched on a little program we call “I Didn’t Do It, Honest.” I beamed them all toward Slim’s . . . yipes . . . wrathful face.

  The fog in my mind began to clear. I saw people. Tom Trejo was counting donuts and writing on a piece of paper. Loper stood a short distance away, looking toward the sky and shaking his head. Several mechanics had come outside and were laughing.

  Slim wasn’t laughing. “Hank, you birdbrain, get in the pickup! Now!”

  Sure. Fine. No problem. But if he would just give me a minute, I could explain . . . he opened the pickup door and booted me in the tail.

  “Get in there!”

  I flew into the seat, which was no small deal, since I was stuffed to the gills and had taken on some extra weight.

  Drover whispered, “Did you get in trouble?”

  “Roger that.”

  “How bad?”

  “Pretty bad, but I think it’s fixing to get worse. The donut man is adding up the bill.”

  Slim and Loper were standing near Tom Trejo, watching in gloomy silence as he added up a long column of numbers. Loper said, “How much?”

  “Oh,” said Tom, “it’s not as bad as I thought, only forty bucks. I’m giving you a volume discount.”

  Loper’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “Forty bucks! Would you take the dog instead?”

  Tom chuckled. “Nope, but we take checks.”

  Loper snatched the checkbook out of his hip pocket, bent over the hood of Trejo’s pickup, and slashed off a check. His lips were white when he handed it over. “Sorry about this. The dog is a moron, that’s all I can say.”

  “It’s okay, Loper. We’re square.” Trejo looked around and grinned. “Well, I guess he liked my donuts.” No one laughed.

  They shook hands. Slim and Loper went back inside the shop (giving me nullifying glares as they walked past) and Trejo got into his pickup and started the motor. And guess who made his appearance then: Poodzie Poodle. He flew into Tom’s lap, leaped with joy, and licked him on the face. Tom laughed and rubbed the little snot behind the ears.

  It was so disgusting, I had to turn away. But as Trejo was backing out of the parking space, I looked around, just in time to catch a glimpse of Poodzie Poodle. He was grinning and waving good-bye. Oh, and he yelled, “Thanks for the business, dude!”

  I was so mad, I could have . . . never mind.

  Just then, Slim and Loper came out of the shop, and we soon found out what had taken them so long. Loper had been arguing and pleading with the service manager to loan us another pickup until Slim’s old wreck got fixed. Apparently he had won the argument.

  Outside, Loper pitched the key to Slim and said, “See you back at the ranch, and don’t get lost on the way. I hope your dog enjoyed his forty-dollar donuts.”

  “Don’t blame me.”

  “You’re the one who brought him to town.”

  “All right, we’ll split the damages, fifty-fifty. You can take it out of my next paycheck. Will that make you happy?”

  “Forget it. I’d rather pay the bill and complain about it.”

  Slim nodded. “Just what I figured. Where’s this loaner pickup I’m supposed to drive?” Loper pointed to a shiny late-model red Ford parked next to ours. Slim let out a whistle. “That’s awful fancy for our outfit. I won’t know how to act, driving a pickup that works.”

  “Try not to tear it up. After paying for your dog’s snack food, I’m broke.” Loper walked to his pickup and drove off.

  Drover and I were still sitting in the broken pickup. Slim came over to collect some of his personal things—gloves, fencing pliers, a shovel, and a log chain—and he was muttering under his breath. “I’ll be hearing about them stinking donuts for the next six months. Thanks a bunch, Hank.”

  Me? Hey, had it ever occurred to him that we’d been set up on that donut deal? Of course not. When in doubt, blame Old Hank for everything that goes wrong. Well, for his information . . . burp, excuse me . . . for his information . . . boy, I was sure loaded up with . . . you know, donuts are delicious while you’re eating them, but if you happen to gobble down a couple of boxfuls . . .

  I wasn’t feeling so great, and that’s when I began to realize that donuts are cooked in GREASE. Had you thought of that? I hadn’t. I mean, in the midst of the Donut Frenzy, I had thought they were as light and puffy as summer . . . bupp . . . clouds, but now . . . ooo, boy, I felt like I had two hundred pounds of cast iron in my stomach.

  Bork. Mupp.

  All at once it seemed hot and stuffy inside the pickup. I could hear my innards twisting and squeaking, as my poor body fought against the Grease Invasion. Stale grease. Yucko grease. Oily, oozey, slimy, gooey, greasy grease. Grease forever, grease everywhere!

  Drover must have heard my stomach rumbling. His ears shot up and he stared at me. “Is that you?”

  “Yes. I hate donuts.”

  “No fooling? How come you ate so many?”

  “Drover, small
minds always ask obvious . . . hick . . . questions.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t you get it? I lost my head, I got swept up in a frenzy of . . . I’ve got to get out of here!”

  Slim was still loading stuff and the door on the driver’s side hung open. I shoved past Drover, staggered across the seat, bumped into Slim, and made a dive for the sidewalk. I arrived there just in time, for my tormented body had already entered into the Anti-Grease Flush Program.

  For the next thirty seconds, all circuits and systems moved out of my control. I mean, I knew this was a bad place to do it, right there on the sidewalk in front of the Ford dealership, but my entire body had been taken over by invisible forces and I had become a helpless bystander.

  When the storm passed, so to speak, I felt much better, and dared to let my gaze wander over to Slim. His chin had slumped against his chest and his right hand covered his eyes. Shaking his head, he mumbled, “I hope nobody’s watching this.”

  Well? What’s a dog supposed to do, drown in grease?

  Slim collected the rest of his stuff, pitched Drover out of the cab, and slammed the door. “Come on, you clowns, let’s sneak out of town before I get arrested.”

  Did he ask about my health? Did he care that I had repelled an attack of Deadly Donut Toxins? Oh no. All he could think about was . . . never mind.

  We followed him to the loaner pickup and formed a line beside the driver’s-side door. Loyal dogs to the end, we were ready to load up and take our usual spots on the seat, where we could keep Slim company and help him with the long drive back to the ranch.

  He looked down at me and curled his lip. “You think you’re going to ride in a nice pickup after that? Get in the back. That’s the place for hogs and low-class mutts.”

  Hogs and low-class mutts? Fine. If that’s the way he felt about it, I had no problem riding in the back. Furthermore, what made him think that I even wanted to ride up front with him? After all the hateful things he’d said, I wasn’t sure I would EVER ride in the cab with him again.

  It’s sad when old friendships come to an end, but I knew that things would never be the same between us again. He had destroyed something precious inside me, trampled on the feelings of a dog who had devoted his whole life to pleasing his people.