Slim's Goodbye

by John R. Erickson

  He made his coffee and fixed himself some break­fast. You probably think he made sausage and eggs, right? Biscuits and gravy? Ha. This guy was no chef. He was the same guy who’d made that Range Fire Jerky.

  He opened a can of sardines in mustard sauce and ate it with crackers. Sardines for breakfast! He didn’t offer any of it to me and Drover, and that was fine. I couldn’t imagine looking a sardine in the face first thing in the morning.

  We left the house around eight. It had snowed several inches in the night and little flakes were still coming down from the gray sky. Slim fed Leonard’s horse, Billy, and chopped the ice on the water tank, then he opened up the sack of dog food. It was time for us to eat, it appeared, and to celebrate the moment, I went into Joyful Leaps and Vigorous Wags on the tail section.

  He dipped the dog food out of the sack with an empty bean can and put it in two separate bowls, ten or fifteen feet apart. What was this? We’d always eaten out of the same bowl before.

  I was all set to make a rush for the grub, but then I heard Slim’s voice. “Hank! Sit.”

  Huh? Sit? Hey, he’d put out the grub and it was time . . .

  “Sit. We’re gonna work on your manners today.”

  Manners! Oh brother. It was a pretty boring day when Slim couldn’t think of anything better to do than . . .

  Okay, I sat down, but also quivered and licked my chops. Oh, and I shot a glance at Drover, just to make sure he wasn’t trying to cheat. I could stand being mannerly, as long as Drover had to play by the same rules.

  You’ve got to watch him, you know. Remember how grabby he’d been over that blanket deal? He had a pretty serious Me-First Problem and no more manners than a hog.

  “Drover, sit down and wait for Slim’s signal. We’re doing Manners on this meal.”

  “Manners? How come?”

  “Slim wants us to show restraint and delayed graffications.”

  “I’ll be derned.” He began scratching his ear.

  “Don’t scratch while I’m talking to you about manners. Scratching at mealtime is crude and rude.”

  “Yeah, but it feels great.”

  “Drover, the whole purpose of manners is to make ourselves uncomfortable. It shows a higher order of . . . something. Discipline. Restraint. It shows that we’re not just dogs who eat like hogs.”

  “Yeah, but what’s a graffication?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “You said something about it just a minute ago.”

  “Oh. Yes. That. Well, you’ve heard of graphs, I suppose, and a graffication is similar to a graph, only more so. Is that clear?” His eyes crossed. “Don’t cross your eyes at me. If you don’t understand some­thing, just say so, ask a question. You don’t need to make loony faces.”

  “Oh, okay. Can I ask a question?”

  “No. If you didn’t get it the first time, there’s no hope that you’ll get it the second or third. Just sit still and wait for the signal.”

  Slim finished putting out the dog food, and he noticed us sitting there like . . . well, angels. Perfect dogs. Models of good and mannerly behavior.

  “Well, that’s more like it. See, you hammerheads can learn a thing or two. Now, I’m going to work in the Guano Mine, so you mutts stay around the house. Don’t bark at Leonard’s horse, stay out of the garbage barrel, and don’t wander off.” He started for the chicken house, then turned around. “Oh. Y’all may eat.”

  He left. Thus far, I still hadn’t moved toward the bowls of food, and Drover was waiting for my signal. I noticed that he was licking his chops.

  “All right, Drover, I will now choose which bowl I want.”

  “Oh darn. How come you get to pick?”

  “Because, Drover, I am older and wiser than you. For these important decisions, we must use our best minds.”

  “Well, mine’s the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Nevertheless, I will make the choice. I hope you understand that I’m doing this for my own good.”

  “Oh, well, that’s different. But I hope you’ll hurry up.”

  I had no intention of hurrying up. After all, this was a very important decision.

  Chapter Eleven: I Teach the Horse a Valuable Lesson

  I rose from my spot and walked to the first bowl. We’ll call it Bowl A. I studied the level of food kernels in the bowl and gave it a good sniffing. Then, at a leisurely pace, I walked over to the second bowl, which we’ll call Bowl B. (I hope this doesn’t get too complicated.) I gave it the same treatment and spent a moment thinking over my decision.

  “Okay, I’ve decided to take Bowl A. We will now walk slowly to our respective bowls and begin eating.”

  “Oh good, I got the bowl I wanted.”

  He started toward Bowl B, but I stopped him. “Wait a minute. Why did you want Bowl B?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It just looked nicer.”

  “Sit down, Drover, I may need to reconsider my decision.” I went to Bowl B and studied it again. “You’re right, this one is definitely better. I’ll take it. Let’s eat.”

  He made a dash for the Bowl A and I began munching kernels from Bowl B. They tasted . . . well, not so great, like sawdust covered with stale grease. On the other hand, Drover was making all kinds of noise over his food, which made me wonder . . .

  I went back to Bowl A. “Sorry, son, I’ve changed my mind. I want this one.”

  “Yeah, but you said . . .”

  “Move it. Scram, is what I said.”

  He ran to my bowl and I took a bite from his. Crunch, crunch. Oh yes, these kernels were much better—the taste, the texture, the . . .

  I stopped chewing and raised my head. I could still hear him eating. I mean, you’d have thought he was eating a pot roast or something really special, the way he was crunching and slobbering. I found myself glaring at him. What was going on here? I had tasted the kernels from that bowl only moments before and hadn’t been impressed, yet he was carrying on as if . . .

  I lumbered over to Bowl A . . . Bowl B . . . which­ever bowl it was, I’ve lost track, but I lumbered over to it and pushed him aside. “Excuse me, I’m taking over here. You thought you could pull a fast one on me, huh? Sorry, pal, go back to the other bowl.”

  “Yeah, but I thought . . .”

  I curled my lips and gave him snarl. “Now get back to your bowl and quit making a spectacle of myself.”

  He resumed his eating and I resumed mine. Oh yes, no question about it, the kernels in this bowl were far superior to the ones in the other. Great stuff. Much better. And just imagine, the little goof had thought he could cheat me out of the better meal!

  But you know what? The more I ate of those kernels, the more they reminded me of . . . sawdust. Yet there was Drover at the next bowl, gobbling and slurping and smacking on every bite. I found myself glaring at him and wondering . . .

  How could I enjoy my meal when Drover seemed to be enjoying his so much more? It didn’t make any sense to me, but he sure ruined my meal, the little dunce.

  After breakfast, we found warm spots on the sunny side of the house and took a nap. Wait. I took a nap and Drover took a nap. That’s two naps, so I guess I should say that we found sunny so-forths and took naps—naps, plural.

  I woke up an hour or two later, stood up, yawned, and stretched. Then I glanced around for something to do. Hmm, there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment—no bones to chew, no chickens to scatter, no cats to run up a tree. I watched Slim push the wheelbarrow to the edge of the trees and dump it. That wasn’t real exciting. At last I located a stick and chewed on it for a while.

  Ho hum. I hate waiting around and being bored. It was then that I noticed Leonard’s horse. Yes, Slim had said something about not barking at the horse, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t mind if I just . . . well, checked him out. No harm there, right?


  Have we discussed horses? I don’t like ’em, never have. Once in a while you’ll find a good one, but mostly they’re all the same—cocky, overbearing, and rude. I decided to drift over to the horse pen and introduce myself to this guy. What did Slim call him? Bob, I believe. No, Bill. Billy, there we go. I drifted over to the . . . I’ve already said that.

  I sat down beside the pen and watched him eating his hay. Billy, that is, not Slim. I watched Billy the Horse eating his hay. Slim eats all kinds of awful stuff, but not hay.

  Okay. It appeared to be a pretty good grade of alfalfa hay, a nice bright color of green, with plenty of leaves and not much grass or weeds. Billy took a chomp, tossed it up in the air, and sent it flying. Then he began chewing and I noticed that his eyes drifted over to me.

  I had already decided to be cordial. When you’re bored, really bored, being cordial to a horse can be fun. “Nice day.” He went on eating. “That looks like pretty good alfalfa.” Silence. “I don’t eat hay myself. Is it pretty good?” Nothing.

  See? What did I tell you? You speak to ’em, try to be nice, and they ignore you. I decided to try a different approach.

  “You’re kind of a sloppy eater, aren’t you? I mean, the way you throw your food around. If I was buying your hay, I’d want you to be a little more careful with it. I hear that stuff’s bringing four dollars a bale, and that doesn’t include hauling and stacking.”

  He slouched over to the tank and took a slurp of water. He still hadn’t lowered himself to speak to me, and it was beginning to grate on my nerves.

  “I guess you think you’re pretty hot stuff.”

  His head came up and several beads of water dribbled off his chin. “Yeah, I guess I do. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m with Slim. We’ll be here for a few days. I guess you could say that I’m Head of Ranch Secu­rity, only this isn’t exactly a ranch. Ha, ha.” He took another drink and didn’t even smile. “Name’s Hank. Hank the Cowdog. I thought it was about time we got acquainted.”

  He wandered over to the fence near where I was sitting. “That’s nice. Now, you see this corral fence?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s a good stout fence. I noticed it right away.”

  “Uh-huh. Horses stay in here. Dogs stay outside. As long as you don’t get confused about that, everything will be hunky-dory.”

  I gave him a sly grin. This was getting interesting. “I must have misunderstood. There for a second, I thought you were saying that the Head of Security isn’t allowed in the horse pen, but that couldn’t be right. I mean, it’s my job to take care of the place, and unless I’m badly mistaken, this pen is part of the place.”

  He gazed off in the distance and sighed. “Let me say it again. Dogs outside, horses inside. It’s very simple. You there, me here, no problems.” He ambled back to the hay and flipped a block of it into the air.

  “Yes, but suppose I need to go in there for an investigation? That might come up, you never know. Hello? I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to ignore me, but that won’t work.”

  He didn’t even look at me. Okay, fine. We’d just see about this. I reached my left front paw under the fence and placed it in the horse pen. He didn’t notice, so I scooched my other paw under the fence. That gave us a total of two dog paws in the horse pen.

  Nothing happened.

  Well, I was feeling bolder now and scrunched myself halfway under the fence, so that the top half of my enormous body lay inside the pen. No response. I wiggled the rest of the way through. In other words, I had just entered Forbidden Ground. How did it feel? Great. I loved it. This was turning into a pretty exciting adventure.

  Billy said nothing, didn’t even look my way. Okay, so I made an even bolder move. I walked five steps and waited to see what he would do about it. Ha. Nothing. He went right on munching his hay.

  That’s one thing I’d noticed about horses. They’re so arrogant and haughty, so high and mighty, but when it comes down to action, they come up short. You know why? Laziness, just pure and simple laziness. They’ll mouth off and talk a good fight, but when it comes down to the glass tacks, they’re too lazy to produce.

  I walked over to the stock tank and got myself a drink. Of course I was watching him out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t notice, so I took another drink, this one quite a bit louder than the first one. Nothing.

  “Your tank’s getting a little scum on the sides.” Again, no response.

  Well, it appeared that I had made my point—that I could go anywhere I pleased—and it ap­­peared that he had given in and accepted my authority over the entire place. I was a little surprised that he had caved so soon. I mean, I hadn’t even been forced to show fangs or bark or anything. I had expected more of a struggle.

  Was I really so scary? Apparently so. Maybe my title had helped, Head of Ranch Security.

  At that moment, Drover came over to the edge of the pen. He yawned and gave me his usual grin. “Oh, hi Hank. What are you doing in the horse pen?”

  “Oh, just checking things out, establishing my presence, you might say. Come on in and get your­self a drink. The water’s fine.”

  “Oh . . . I think I’ll stay here. I’m kind of scared of horses.”

  “Why? Look at me.” I pranced up and down, even stood up on my back legs and walked a few steps. Pretty daring, huh? You bet it was, but I had one eye on Billy the whole time, just in case.

  But I needn’t have worried about Billy. He’d gotten so fat and lazy over the winter months, he wasn’t going to bother anyone.

  Drover was impressed. “Gosh, that’s good. I figured the horse would get mad if a dog got in his pen.”

  “You just have to know how to handle horses, son. They’re big and loud and overbearing at first, but if you’re firm with ’em, they’ll come around.”

  “I’ll be derned. I bet you won’t go sit on his hay.”

  I glanced at the three blocks of alfalfa on the ground, then turned back to Drover. “Why would you make such a foolish bet?”

  “’Cause I don’t think you’ll do it. I wouldn’t. You know how horses are about their feed.”

  I paused to think it over. I mean, I had made my point with Billy the Windbag Horse, and I didn’t want to press my luck. On the other hand . . . hmm. I had been in his precious pen for ten whole minutes. I had taken a drink from his water tank, and I had even paraded around on my back legs. And he had done nothing about it, hadn’t even said a word.

  I had a feeling that I could pull it off. If he made a dive for me, I would scamper away and laugh at him. I was smaller and quicker, right? I had been blessed with remarkable speed and lightning-fast reflexes, right?

  “All right, Drover, I’m going to do this for your benefit. It’s part of your education. Watch and take notes.”

  You probably think I swaggered over and flopped down on the pile of hay. Nope. I was confident but not cocky. I moved toward the hay pile in stages: three steps, stop, wait, watch; three steps, stop, wait, watch. And the whole time I was doing this, I never once took my eyes off Billy. I mean, at the first sign of trouble, I was ready to hit the After­burners and get myself out of range of his hooves.

  That’s what they do, you know. They try to kick you with their back feet or paw you with their front ones. As long as he had all four feet on the ground, I was in business.

  I moved closer and closer. I was only three feet away from him, when all of a sudden . . .

  Chapter Twelve: Happy Ending or Good-bye to Slim?

  Okay, relax. Billy swished his tail and the end of it brushed across my nose. It gave me a little scare, but I managed to keep control of things.

  I inched forward, and by then I was only two feet from the hay pile. He was munching, flicking his ears now and then, and looking off to the north. If he was aware of my presence, he wasn’t showing it. Well, that was all I needed to know. I took the las
t three steps and sat down in the middle of his alfalfa.

  I beamed him a smile. “Hi.”

  His head swung around. He stopped chewing. Our eyes met, and he went right back to chewing. I tossed a glance toward Drover. “See? There’s really nothing . . .”

  HUH?

  What a cheap trick. As you may know, when horses attack dogs, they’re supposed to do it with their hooves, right? I mean, that’s sort of the accepted method of operation amongst horses and dogs. We’ve been doing it that way for years, for centuries. Everybody knows the rules of the game and everybody . . .

  But you know what he did? The instant, the very instant I took my eyes off of him, he reached down his head, clamped his big ugly green-stained teeth around the loose skin on my neck, picked me up, and flung me into the air. And we’re talking about flying lessons, boys. I cleared the top of the fence and hit the ground like a rock.

  OOF!

  It knocked the wind out of me. Otherwise I might have gone charging back into the pen and thrashed the hateful thing. Or at least sprayed him with some stern barking. But I was doing well just to breathe. I staggered to my feet and tried to catch a breath.

  Drover came rushing up. “Boy howdy, did you see that?”

  I managed to gasp a reply. “Of course I saw it, you birdbrain. It was me!”

  “Yeah, and boy, did you fly! I never saw a dog fly so far.”

  “Don’t forget that he cheated. If he’d played by accepted rules, he never would have . . . help me to the porch, Drover, I’m badly wounded.”

  I dragged myself to the porch—to the sheet of plywood, I should say. There, I was able to regain the use of my breathing mechanisms. At that point I aimed a scorching glare back to the horse pen.

  You know what Billy was doing? Nothing. Eating. Munching hay. He didn’t gloat, he didn’t laugh, he didn’t even look at me. How do you sup­pose that made me feel? I mean, he had just thrown the Head of Security out of the corral, right? A major offense, an unspeakable crime. Yet to look at the oaf, you’d have thought he’d just swatted a fly.