Slim's Goodbye

by John R. Erickson

  So there we were, Drover and I, ready to leap into the cab. But instead of opening the door, Slim stood there for a long moment, looking down at us. “Y’all can’t go this time. You’d better stay here and take care of the ranch.”

  Then he knelt down and kind of gathered us into his arms and gave us a hug. Now that was really strange. Slim hugging us? After he’d just amused himself by bombarding my head and ears with drips?

  Oh well. We’ll take hugs anytime they come, and, heh heh, I managed to nail him a good one on the cheek with a wet tongue. Paybacks.

  Then he stood up, glanced around the place one last time, and said, “Well, see you around, boys.”

  And he climbed into his old rattletrap pickup, cranked up the engine, and drove away.

  As the pickup pulled away from the old cowcamp shack, I shot a glance at my assistant. “Drover, I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s going to town without us.”

  “Yeah, ’cause there he goes and here we sit.”

  “Exactly. And when was the last time we saw the bright lights of town?”

  “Well, let’s see here. I can’t remember, it’s been so long.”

  “Exactly my point. Now, we have a choice here. We can stay out here on the ranch and spend the rest of the day barking at sparrows, or we can hitch a ride into town.”

  “Yeah, but he told us to stay here.”

  “I’m aware of that, Drover, but sometimes we dogs have to . . . how can I say this?”

  “I don’t know, but if we’re going to hitch a ride into town, we’d better hurry. Once he gets past that first cattle guard, we won’t be able to catch him.”

  We exchanged secret grins. “Good point, son. I couldn’t have put it better myself. Let’s move out!”

  We raced after the pickup, and sure enough, Slim slowed down for the first cattle guard. You know why? That pickup of his was so old and beat up, it might have fallen apart if he’d hit the cattle guard too fast.

  Yes, he slowed down for the cattle guard, and by the time he got there he was thinking about keeping his pickup in one piece. And the last thing on his mind was that we dogs might have decided that we needed a trip to town just as much as Slim did. Heh heh.

  He never suspected a thing. We flew into the bed of the pickup. Well, I flew. It took Drover several shots, and he had to grunt and scramble, but we got ’er done. It was a pretty impressive piece of work.

  Jumping into the back of a moving pickup isn’t all that hard, if you’ve practiced it a few times and know how to do it. See, we had to come from the side—and not just any side. It had to be the right side, and you probably wonder why.

  Simple. Slim had a big mirror on the left side of the pickup, and he just might have seen us if we’d come in from the left. That was pretty crafty of us, huh? You bet it was. Oh, and don’t forget that if we had messed up the leaping process, we could have fallen to the ground and gotten ourselves smashed by the tires. We didn’t, and for very good reason. I was an expert at Pickup Load­eration and had had had . . . had had had . . .

  I HAD HAD valuable experience in Smash Avoidance Techniques, there we go, which came in very handy.

  Had had. Two hads, not three. I’ve never found an occasion when three hads were necessary.

  Where were we? Oh yes, we pulled off the Pickup Loaderation deal and made it look like a piece of cheese.

  Pie.

  Cake.

  We made it look easy, is the point, and once we’d both made it into the bed of the pickup, we slithered ourselves to the front and scrunched down behind the cab. With a little luck, old Slim would never know that he was now transporting dogs until we were already in town.

  He would be mad, of course, but what the heck? Show me a dog who never does anything naughty and I’ll show you a dog who never sees the bright lights of town.

  Drover and I exchanged winks and grins and settled down for a nice windblown trip into town. I kind of enjoy those trips in the back of the pickup, when the wind causes the tips of my ears to flap around. It’s restful.

  So there we were, all set for a . . . huh? That was strange. When we came to Wolf Creek Road, Slim turned left instead of right. A right turn would have taken us toward Twitchell, the town where we usually went, whereas a turn to the left would take us . . . well, I wasn’t sure where it went. I had gone that direction a couple of times, and we had always been going to Miss Viola’s house.

  Is that where we were going, to Miss Viola’s?

  I shot a glance at Drover. “Hmm. I wonder what this means.”

  He grinned. “Well, it means we’re going to get in trouble with Slim, but you know what? I think it’s kind of exciting. I never get into trouble.”

  “You missed the point, Drover. The point is that we just turned left.”

  “Right.”

  “No, left.”

  “Right. We turned left.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Yeah, and I agreed, so I guess we’ve got it figured out.”

  “Hmm, yes. But I wonder why we turned left.”

  “Well . . .’cause Slim did, and he’s driving.”

  I glared at the runt. “You needn’t dwell on the obvious, Drover. I know that Slim’s driving, but the point is . . . skip it. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then Drover said, “I’ll be derned. I wonder why we’re going this way instead of the other way.”

  “Because this is the way Slim turned, and he’s driving.”

  “Oh. Well, that makes sense.”

  When we came to Miss Viola’s place, we slowed down, and for a second there I thought Slim was going to turn in at the driveway. But he didn’t. He took a long look up at the house, then sped up and kept going.

  “Drover, there’s something fishy going on here.”

  “Yeah, and I love fish, everything but the bones and scales. I ate a scale once and got choked.”

  “Scales are used for weighing the fish. You should never eat the scales. Did you actually chew it up and swallow it?”

  “Oh yeah, but then it got hung up in my throat.”

  “I’m not surprised. Those things are big.”

  “Yeah, but catfish don’t have any scales.”

  “Well, in a sense you’re right, Drover, but in another sense you’re wrong. You see, technically speaking, the scales belong to the people who catch the fish, not to the fish themselves. Hencely, you’re correct in saying that catfish don’t have scales, but neither do . . . name another kind of fish.”

  “Well, let’s see. There’s big fish. And little fish.”

  “Exactly, and because of the vast difference in size between your big fish and your little fish . . . I seem to have lost the thread of this conversation.”

  “Needles?”

  “Ah, yes. For every needle in this life, there is a thimble waiting to push it through the fabric of society.” I noticed that his eyes were crossed. “Why are you crossing your eyes at me?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m confused. I don’t know what we’re talking about.”

  “Well, neither do I, so why do we go on talking? Could we just drop it?”

  “Fine with me. You’re the one who started it.”

  “I was not. I would never start a conversation with you. A dog would have to be insane to start a conversation with you, and if he wasn’t insane to start with, he would be after five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry. I try to be a good dog.”

  “You can’t help it, Drover. You’re just . . . forget it, and don’t ever speak to me again.”

  I enjoyed five entire minutes of silence and peace. Then Drover broke the silence. “You know, it’s kind of fishy that we’re going east on this road. I guess we’re not going to Twitchell.”

  I stared into the huge vacuum of his ey
es and wondered how I could find words to express . . . I decided to say nothing.

  The minutes passed and we kept driving. When we came to a blacktop highway, Slim turned right. We were heading south. Some tiny particle of Drover’s mind seemed to notice this, and he felt the need to comment on it.

  “I’ll be derned. We’re heading south. You don’t reckon we’re going to Alpine, do you?”

  I tore myself away from the joy of letting the wind blow my ears around and gave him a sour look. “Alpine? Alpine refers to a range of mountains called the Alps. The Alps are in a distant state, perhaps Oklahoma or New York City. Why would we be going to such a place?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I heard Slim say something about Alpine. I just wondered.”

  “Drover, it’s good that you wonder about things every once in a while, and I’ve tried to encourage you to use your little mind whenever possible, but I can assure you that this is just a routine trip to town. We are not going to Alpine.”

  “Then how come Slim packed up all his clothes? And his saddle? See, they’re sitting on the seat of the pickup.”

  Huh? To be honest, I had missed that tiny detail.

  Chapter Five: Our Search for the Elusive Penguins

  I pushed myself up on all-fours and peeked through the back window, expecting to find . . . hmm, there sat three grocery sacks stuffed with clothes. Also a saddle, two pairs of boots, and a sack filled with books and magazines.

  I turned back to Drover. “He must have packed that stuff while we were sleeping, Drover, so we’re not able to use it as evidence in this case.”

  “Yeah, but it’s there. You just saw it.”

  “We didn’t actually see him packing the stuff. Therefore, we can’t leap to the conclusion that he packed it himself. It might have been packed by . . . I don’t know, somebody else. It might have packed itself. This is a very strange world, Drover, and I must remind you that there are many things that we just don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, but he’s got all his clothes. And his saddle. That’s everything he owns, and I’m starting to get worried. I don’t want to go to Alpine!”

  “Will you dry up and quit moaning? Who or whom are you going to trust—me or a bunch of illegal evidence?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Good choice. Now don’t you feel better already?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Great. That settles it. Trust me, Drover, and you won’t have to burden your little mind with a bunch of fauna and flora.”

  “What’s fauna and flora?”

  “I’m sorry, we’re out of time for questions. Lie down and relax. We are NOT going to Alpine.”

  And with that, we laid down our heads and took a wonderful nap, knowing in our deepest hearts that Slim would never quit the ranch and haul his dogs to some distant corner of the globe.

  I don’t know where Drover comes up with this stuff. Alpine? How ridiculous.

  I awoke when I felt the pickup slowing down. I raised my head and saw . . . hmm, we seemed to be approaching a long bridge. The sign on the bridge said . . . “Canadian River.”

  Drover saw it too. “Oh my gosh, we’re in Canada! I knew it, I want to go home, and this old leg is killing me!”

  I told him to hush. How could I think with him squeaking and moaning? Then I jumped into the task of sifting clues and gathering information. Suddenly I found it hard to deny that we were at that very moment crossing into some distant foreign land. I mean, the sign did say Canadian River, and Canadian by its very nature was associated with Canada.

  My mind was racing. My data banks whirred and clicked as they worked through the mass of new evidence in this case.

  Evidence #1. There wasn’t much water in the Canadian River. It consisted mostly of . . . well, sand. Sand and tamarack brush and a scattering of mesquite trees.

  Evidence #2. Up ahead, I saw a quaint foreign village built on the hills south of the river. Obviously this was no ordinary town in the Texas Panhandle.

  Evidence #3. I searched my data banks for infor­mation about Canada and came up with . . . cold. Canada was a cold place, right? Snow, ice, penguins, the whole nine yards.

  I turned to my assistant. “Drover, does it seem cold to you?”

  “Well . . . about like it was before.”

  “Just as I suspected. All at once it seems very cold.”

  “Well, that’s not . . .”

  “Don’t try to deny the facts, Drover. It’s cold back here.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I guess it is kind of cold.”

  “See? There we are. Suddenly we’re both aware of the frigid cold. Okay, next point. How much do you know about Canada?”

  “Well . . . they make ginger ale.”

  “Yes, yes? Go on. I think we’re getting close to something. What else do you know about Canada?”

  “Well, let me think here. They make geese.”

  “More, Drover, keep pushing.”

  “And it’s . . . oh my gosh, it’s . . . cold in Canada.”

  I gave him a triumphant smile. “There we have it, Drover. Unless I’m badly mistaken, we have just entered the distant foreign land of Canada.”

  All at once he covered his eyes with his front paws. “Oh my gosh, I knew it, help, take me home!”

  “But to confirm this, we’ll need a few more pieces of evidence. Uncover your eyes and go into Data Gathering Mode.”

  He did, and we both began searching the country around us for clues. We crossed the long bridge and entered the outskerps of town. There, Drover saw something.

  “There’s a clue. It’s a rodeo arena.”

  I studied on that one. “I’m sorry, son, but that doesn’t fit our pattern. Keep looking.”

  “There’s one. Look, that sign says . . . ‘Canadian City Limits.’”

  I focused on the sign, and sure enough, Drover was right. “Good shot, Drover, that was a bull’s-eye. The evidence is mounting up, isn’t it? Now, to confirm our theory, we need one final clue.”

  “I want to go home!”

  “Hush, Drover, concentrate. This could be very important to this case. What we’re looking for now, the last piece in this puzzle, is . . . we need to find a penguin.”

  He stared at me. “A penguin?”

  “Yes, a penguin. Don’t give me that loony ex­pression. If this is Canada and if Canada is cold, we will find evidence of penguins.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  Just then . . . “Aha! Look there, Drover, on the side of the road.”

  He looked. “It’s a black-and-white dog.”

  “It’s a black-and-white penguin.”

  “It sure looks like a dog to me.”

  “It’s a penguin. That just about wraps it up, son. We are in Canada for sure.” Just then the penguin ran out into the street and followed our pickup. And he seemed to be . . . hmm. “Drover, have you ever heard of a penguin barking at a pickup?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither. He certainly sounds like a dog, doesn’t he? And now that I study his overall bodily conformation, he even looks a bit like a dog, wouldn’t you say?” I whirled around and faced him—Drover, that is. “Drover, what we have here is a barking dog, not a penguin.”

  “That’s what I said. At least, I think that’s what I said.”

  “Which means that our whole house is a theory of cards, and it may have just come crashing down around us. I don’t want to alarm you, Drover, but this may not be Canada after all.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Exactly. As of this very moment, we have no idea where we are. All we know for sure is that they don’t have penguins here.”

  “This leg is killing me!”

  I was in the midst of feeling very discouraged. I mean, after working so hard to amass and fit together all the clues, our case was
now in scrambles. But the worst was yet to come.

  Do I dare reveal what happened next? I don’t know, what do you think? What would you say if I told you that suddenly and all of a sudden a black-and-white police car came out of nowhere and began chasing us?

  Oops, I guess I let it slip and now you know the terrible truth—that all at once we found ourselves on the wrong side of the law, common crinimals who were being chased and pursued by a speeding police car with its lights flashing!

  Pretty scary, huh? You bet it was. Maybe you think it was just the black-and-white dog chasing us and not a black-and-white police car. Ha. We should have been so lucky. No, it was a police car, all right, and he not only had his lights flashing, but he even turned on his siren.

  Drover and I exchanged worried glances. After a moment, he broke the icy silence. “Gosh, what did we do?”

  “I don’t know, son, but this is looking very serious. Did you happen to see the name on the side of that car? It said ‘Canadian Police.’”

  “Oh my gosh, the Mounties?”

  “Yes, we’re about to be arrested by the Mounties.”

  “But I thought we weren’t in Canada.”

  “It’s confusing, isn’t it? Even I’m confused, Drover, and that’s a sure sign that things have gotten out of control. Quick, we’ve got to hide.”

  We pressed ourselves into the left front corner of the pickup bed. And we waited to find out why and how we had landed on the Ten Most Wanted Dogs list of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  My life passed before my very eyes—a happy childhood, a long and glorious career as Head of Ranch Security, a few tiny mistakes here and there. Then it hit me.

  “Drover, I’ve just figured it out. I know why they’re after us.”

  “Oh my gosh, you mean . . .”

  “Yes, exactly. Do you remember the day Sally May put those steaks out to thaw on the back porch?”

  “Well, let’s see here . . .”