Slim's Goodbye

by John R. Erickson

  We made it through the door without any . . . okay, maybe Slim tripped over me as I went streaking between his legs, but mostly it was a slick entry. We headed straight for the big gas stove in the middle of the store, hit the floor, and assumed the curled-up positions of dogs who had, well, been there for hours—dogs who belonged in a saddle shop, just as surely as the stove belonged there.

  I closed my eyes but kept my ears alert for any problems. I held my breath and waited. Slim muttered something about “almost knocked me down,” but that was it. He didn’t order us outside. See? I’d known all along that he’d wanted us to come in, and in exchange for that, he got our solemn pledge to be perfect dogs: no barking or wrestling, no throwing up on the floor, no crude behavior of any kind.

  Slim came over and pulled up one of the chairs beside the stove. I heard it scrape across the floor, and I cracked one eye. He sat down and threw one leg over the other knee, and I noticed that he seemed to be scowling down at . . . well, me. Us. Someone down there.

  “You boys are making yourselves right at home, I see.”

  Oh yes. Fine. Thanks. Nice stove.

  Leonard closed the door and joined us at the stove. He had a sparkle in his eyes and was rubbing his hands together. “Slim, you have come in here on a good day.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “No, now hear me out. I have some fine boots I need to sell, and it is clear to me that you need a pair of my fine boots.”

  “What ever gave you that idea?”

  “The duct tape, Slim. It don’t match the color of your boots. Now, I have some Sanders bullhides that will fit you like a glove, and I can feel a weakness coming over me, even as we speak. If you was to offer me seventy bucks . . .”

  “Ain’t got it, Leonard.”

  “Sixty bucks.”

  “Can’t handle it.”

  Leonard scowled. “How about a new rope?” Slim shook his head. “A cinch webbing?” He threw a glance at us. “What do you call them dogs?”

  “Eat and Sleep.”

  Leonard laughed. “That’s good. Now, about that new pair of boots . . .”

  Slim shook his head. “Leonard, I’ve fell on hard times.” And he told Leonard all the things that had happened to us that day. “So here I am in Cana­dian—broke, no job, no place to stay. All I’ve got to my name is these two dogs, and they ain’t even my dogs.”

  Leonard chewed his lip. “Slim, do you know what you need?”

  “Sure. A rich widder woman with a forty-section ranch, eight hundred oil wells, and a yellow Cadillac.”

  “Ha! Well, yes, who don’t? But what you really need, son,” he reached over and poked Slim on the arm, “is a nice little job.”

  “I know, but I already checked the paper. Nothing.”

  Leonard studied his fingernails. “Well now, it might depend on what you’re willing to do. I agree, the cowboy work is scarce right now. Timing’s wrong. It’s winter and the cattle market’s bad. But there might be other things.”

  “Such as?”

  Leonard arched his brows and folded his hands across his chest. “You won’t like it. I mean, I know you Slim, I know your breed. I used to be a cowboy myself, and if it couldn’t be done a-horseback, I wouldn’t do it. Am I right?”

  “Well . . . I’ve had them thoughts, yes, but that was before this deal come up. Did you have something in mind?”

  Leonard walked past the counter and went to the back of the shop. He stopped at a workbench and started cutting out a piece of leather. “Naw, you wouldn’t do it. You’ve got too much of that cowboy pride.”

  Slim pushed himself up and walked to the counter. “Never mind the cowboy pride. Keep talking.”

  “Well, sir, how would you feel about . . . cleaning out a chicken house?”

  Slim’s brows jumped, and he swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple did a flip. He walked to the front window and stared out, then he walked back to the counter. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing, Leonard. Since I was a boy, I’ve wanted to clean out a chicken house.” Leonard barked a laugh. “But I need a place to sleep, and I ain’t too keen on sleeping in a chicken house.”

  Leonard wiped his hands on his apron and came striding over to the counter. “I’ve got this little place on the edge of town, keep my horse Billy there, you know, and it’s got an old chicken house. Now, my wife’s got it in her head to start raising fryers again and she’s been after me to clean out the chicken house. Naturally, I’ve found fifty-two reasons why I can’t do it. What do you say?”

  “Does it come with a bed?”

  “It’s got a house, cute little house, just perfect for you and them dogs.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Leonard looked up at the ceiling. “Well, it ain’t exactly a house.”

  “What exactly is it?”

  “A camper trailer, Slim, and just as cute as a button. You’ll love it.”

  Slim stared at the floor. “A camper trailer. Does it have a inside pot?”

  “It’s got a mayonnaise jar on the inside and a one-hole johnny on the outside, and Slim, that’s all a man like you needs.” Leonard came around the counter, put his hand on Slim’s shoulder, and started easing him toward the door. “It’ll take you a couple days. I’ll pay you a hundred bucks and grub. I’ll even furnish the shovel and wheelbarrow. What a deal, huh?”

  “Well . . .”

  “And if you decide to blow your wages on boots, I’ll make you a heck of a swap.” By that time they had reached the door. Leonard reached around Slim and opened it. “Here’s twenty bucks. Get yourself some grub at the grocery store. When you’re done, come by and we’ll settle up.” He gave Slim a pat on the shoulder and pushed him toward the door.

  “Yeah, but Leonard . . .”

  “Let me know how that indoor pot works. And don’t forget to feed my horse.”

  And with that, Slim left the store—leaving us dogs inside!

  Chapter Eight: Survivest of the Fiddles

  You’ll be relieved to know that Slim didn’t leave us in Leonard’s Saddle Shop. He stood outside a moment, then stuck his head back inside.

  “Leonard, maybe you’d better tell me where this place is located.”

  Leonard snapped his fingers and strode over to the counter and dashed off some directions. He handed them to Slim and pushed him out the door again. When Slim was gone, he shook his head and sighed. “That boy’s got tar in his veins.” Just then, he saw us sitting by the stove. He ran to the door. “Hey! You forgot your dogs.”

  Slim shrugged, turned around, and came back inside. “Well, you’re so dadgum pushy, you made me forget. Come on, dogs, we’ll take our business somewhere’s else.”

  “Right. Take your business to my worst enemy.”

  We dogs went slinking past him. We slinked . . . slank . . . whatever . . . because we didn’t trust the guy. Sure enough, as we went by, he made kind of a monkey face at me. I growled and sprinted out the door.

  Outside on the street, Slim looked up at the winter clouds and heaved a deep sigh. “Boys, I’ve sunk about as low as a cowboy can sink. I sure wish I had my old job back.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, kicked a rock out into the street, and we trudged back up the hill to the pickup. We dogs loaded into the back and Slim drove to a little grocery store down the street. He emerged fifteen minutes later, carrying a sack of groceries in one arm and a sack of dog food in the other, and we resumed our journey.

  Slim found Leonard’s place in the country, but it wasn’t so easy. It was north and east of town, out in the middle of that heavy tamarack brush in the old river bottom. To reach it, we followed a winding two-track trail through the brush, and when the trail ended, we were there.

  Slim got out and turned up the collar of his jacket. The wind had shifted to the north, gray clouds had moved overhead, and there
was a feel of snow in the air. He dug his hands into his pock­ets and walked to the . . . uh . . . house. The trailer. The “cute little camper trailer.”

  It resembled a tin can on two wheels, and both tires were flat. A long yellow extension cord ran from a utility pole, through a hole in the side, and into the house. That appeared to be the electrical service.

  The trailer was blue. Or green. It was some faded color between blue and green, but mostly it was faded. Oh, and someone had cut a hole in the roof and run a joint of stovepipe out the top, a hint that it was heated with a wood-burning stove.

  The trailer sat in a grove of chinaberry trees. The front porch consisted of a sheet of plywood perched on four cinder blocks. It wasn’t much of a porch, and I certainly hoped that Slim didn’t plan on us dogs sleeping on it.

  Leonard’s horse pen was off to the west. It appeared that he had set up eight or ten portable corral panels, tied them to chinaberry trees with baling wire, and put his haystack on the north side as a windbreak. Inside the pen stood a big bay horse. When he heard us, he turned his head for a moment, stared at us dogs, then went back to eating his alfalfa hay.

  I mean, no hello, no greeting, no “welcome to the place.” I had a feeling that this horse and I weren’t going to be pals.

  Slim opened the door of the trailer and went inside and put his sack of groceries on the counter. He didn’t exactly invite us to join him, but he didn’t tell us we couldn’t, so . . . if they don’t say no, it means yes, right? We managed to slither through his legs and make our way inside.

  It was . . . small. Very small. On the west side, there was a little refrigerator and gas cooking stove, and the east wall was taken up by a couch, which probably served as the bed, since there wasn’t any room for a bed. Yes, it was the bed, had to be. In the middle of the room sat the wood stove and one chair, and that was about it.

  Slim ran his eyes around the place and said, “Well, it beats living in the pickup, I reckon.”

  We went back outside and followed Slim on a slow trudge to the place where he would be working for the next few days, the chicken house. No doubt it had once been a pretty nice affair, but time had taken its toll. The white paint and red trim had faded and cracked, the wood shingles on the roof had buckled, and the chicken yard had grown up in tall weeds.

  Slim opened the door and peeked inside. So did I. My goodness, on the dirt floor beneath the roosts there was a whole mountain range of . . . of something that smelled really bad. Slim slumped against the wall and fanned the fumes away from his face.

  “Good honk. Five tons of chicken manure.” He blinked his eyes several times and heaved a sigh. “Well, I might as well get started. I’m just glad my cowboy friends can’t see me now.”

  He found the wheelbarrow and shovel and went to work. He parked the wheelbarrow in the chicken house door and shoveled it full, then pushed it out to the edge of the tamaracks and dumped it. Then back to the chicken house for another load. Back and forth, back and forth, until the sun went down. When it got too dark for work, he parked the wheel­barrow and went to the house.

  It had started snowing by then, and when we reached the trailer I was pretty sure that Slim would want us to stay inside, so once again, Drover and I were . . . well, plotting our Rapid Entry, so to speak. When Slim’s hand closed around the door­knob, I was poised and ready to spring into action.

  I waited and watched him out of the corner of my eye. The enormous muscles in my legs were coiled like springs. The doorknob squeaked, and when I saw a shaft of light streaming through the crack in the door, I timed my jump perfectly so that . . .

  BONK!

  He didn’t open the door. He faked it, knowing full well that I would . . . what a dirty trick! He chuckled, but I didn’t think it was very funny, not at all. I looked up at him and gave him Puzzled Wags on the tail section.

  “Hank, you’ve just about knocked me down three times today, squirting through doors. Maybe you’d better stay outside and think about your manners. Besides, this tin can ain’t big enough for three of us.”

  Drover and I traded glances. I gave him the sign to switch over to Tragic Eyes. He did and I did, and in a matter of mere seconds, we had switched all circuits over to Tragic Eyes, Disappointed Ears, and Mournful Wags. We beamed these earnest messages to Slim, in hopes that . . .

  “No, you can’t make me feel guilty. I’m gripey and cold-hearted and I’ve been scooping chicken hockey for the past three hours, so I ain’t in my usual sweet frame of mind. Y’all just spend the night out here on the porch. Nightie-night.”

  And with that, he went into the trailer and slammed the door in our faces, leaving us alone with our broken hearts. Oh, and with a bunch of snowflakes too.

  I turned to Drover. “What a heartless cad he turned out to be.”

  “Yeah, I thought we did pretty well with Tragic Eyes.”

  “We did very well, Drover. We’ve never done it better, and it should have worked. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  “Well . . . I guess you tripped him a couple of times today, going through doors. I saw it myself.”

  I glared at the runt. “Well yes, I guess you did—since you were right there beside me, pushing and shoving and being Mister Buttinski. When you push and shove and display your terrible manners, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Well . . . I guess you could let me go first.”

  “Let you go . . . oh brother, now I’ve heard everything! Let you go first? Ha! Drover, that’s the . . . do you have any idea what would happen if I let you go first?”

  “Well, let me think.” He rolled his eyes around. “Nope, I don’t know.”

  “I’ll tell you.” I stood up and began pacing back and forth on the tiny plywood porch. “If I started allowing you to enter houses before me, it would . . .it would corrupt you in small but tiny ways. You’d start grabbing the best spots around the stove and the softest places on the floor. You’d get soft and flabby. You’d become a greedy, grabby little mutt, overbearing and insensitive to the needs of others. Is that what you want in this life?”

  “Well . . . it might be fun to try it.”

  I stopped pacing and stared into his greedy, grabby little eyes. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “Yeah, but I did. It just . . . popped out.”

  “Okay, fine. If that’s the way you want it, if you insist on ignoring all my efforts and sacrifices, by George, we’ll just try it your way. And we’ll just see what happens.”

  “Oh goodie.”

  “The next time this comes up, we’ll turn you loose. We’ll let you transform yourself into a greedy grabber. We’ll let you grevel and rovvel in your own corrupt behavior. We’ll let you . . .”

  At that very moment my lecture was cut short by the opening of the door. Slim stepped out, booted us off the so-called porch, and spread out a saddle blanket. “There. My conscience is now clear. See you boys in the morning.” And he went back inside.

  The moment the door slammed behind him, and I mean, the very instant . . . guess what happened. Drover leaped onto the blanket, staked out the very choicest spot in the middle, and flopped down.

  “What are you doing?”

  He gave me a silly grin. “Well, we decided to let me go first and I did, and you know what? I kind of enjoyed it.”

  I stepped up on the porch and showed him some fangs. “Scram. You’re on my spot.”

  “Yeah but . . . we said . . . you said . . .”

  “We were talking about doors and houses, Drover. This is a blanket. Do you know the difference between a door and a blanket and a house?”

  “Well, let me think. Seventeen?”

  “No, that’s totally incorrect. The difference is twenty-three, and I hope you realize the significance of that number.”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  “There, you see? I’m sorry,
Drover, but until you understand the meaning of your own meaningless behavior, I must insist on getting first dibs on all blankets. Now move.”

  He moaned and grumbled, but he moved. I took my rightful position in the middle of the blanket, circled it three times, and flopped down. Drover curled up on the west edge, where he continued to moan, grumble, and complain.

  “Everything’s so complicated. And I’m cold.”

  “Hush, Drover. It’s cold only if you believe it’s cold. Pretend that you’re living in the desert. Good night.”

  He curled up in a little white ball and began . . . shivering. I tried to ignore the fact that my bed was quivering, but after a while, it began getting on my nerves.

  I raised my head. “Will you stop shivering? How can a dog sleep when his bed feels like Jell-O?”

  “I can’t help it. I’m f-f-freezing.”

  “That’s too bad. We’ve been forced to sleep outside. It’s survivest of the fiddles.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t even carry a tune.”

  “That’s fine, Drover, because we’re not singing. Now go to sleep and stop shivering.”

  And so it was that we settled in for a cold night on the porch.

  Chapter Nine: We’re Freezing Our Tails!

  All went well for a couple of minutes. Then I felt the bed shaking again. I lifted my head and looked over at Drover. “Are you shivering again?”

  “Well, I don’t think so. I’m about to freeze, but I’ve been trying extra hard not to shiver.”

  “That’s odd. I’m almost sure I felt the bed . . . hmmm. I seem to be shivering. It’s cold, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, and I think it’s getting c-c-c-colder by the minute. You reckon we ought to pile on top of each other to stay warm?”

  “No. Absolutely not. Go to sleep.” I thought about the piling-on deal for a moment. “Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. Our bodies could share their warmth.”

  “Yeah, and sharing’s part of good manners.”