“Boy, what a relief.”
“Relief! Where’s the relief?”
“Well . . . you’re not as crazy as we thought . . . I guess.”
“Dunce! I was crazy enough to get sandbagged by a cat and crazy enough to eat fifty pounds of birdseed! How crazy do you want me to be?”
“Well . . . let me think about that.”
“They have pictures, Drover, it’s all on film. There’s no way I can say it didn’t happen. And the sneaking, slimy, sniveling, slithering little crook of a cat lured me right into it!”
“Hee hee hee!”
“What?”
“I said . . . ouch. I’ll bet that hurts.”
I collapsed on the ground and let out a moan. “I’m ruined. Ruined!”
He gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Well, you can always look at the bright side.”
Drover’s words cheered me enough so that I was able to sit up. “Yes? Tell me about the bright side.”
“Well . . . I haven’t found it yet, but I’m thinking.”
“There’s no bright side, Drover. This time, the cat has really cooked my wagon.”
“I rode in a wagon once.”
“I’ll never hear the end of this.”
“Wagons are fun.”
“They’ll still be laughing when the snow flies.”
“Yeah, they’ve been pretty bad.”
“What?”
“The flies. They’re really bad this year.” Suddenly he snapped a fly out of the air. “See? I got one!”
“You ate a fly? Drover, that’s disgusting.”
“Well, you ate birdseed.”
“Yes, and that’s my whole point. You’re eating flies, I ate birdseed . . . Drover, something has gone terribly wrong with the Security Division! We’re all behaving like lunatics!”
Silence moved over us like a deadly cloud. Then . . . Drover’s teeth clicked. “Got another one!”
“Drover, will you please try to be serious? Our department has sunk to the lowest level in . . . wait! I just thought of the brighter side. I’ll apologize to Sally May!” I began pacing, as I often do when my mind has shifted to a higher level. “She’s a good woman, kind and gentle . . . although she doesn’t seem terribly fond of dogs.”
“Oh, I think it’s just you.”
“If I make a full confession and throw myself at her mercy, maybe she can find it in her heart to forgive and forget.”
“Yeah, I forget things all the time.” He snapped at a fly. “Hey, I got another one!”
“Drover, please show some respect. I’m exposing my soul to you and . . . spit out that fly!”
He turned away from me. “It’s mine.”
“Spit it out this very minute, and that is a direct order!”
“Darn.” He spat it out.
“Thank you. How can I reveal my deepest thoughts when you’re . . .” All at once, a fly drilled me on the left ear, and we’re talking about serious drilling. It hurt like crazy. I shucked him off the ear and then blasted him out of the air. “There, you little heathen, take that!”
“Did you get him?”
“You bet I got him. Ha. That fly has fled to the place where fallen flies flee.”
“His name was Fred?”
“What?”
Drover scowled. “I thought you said the fly was Fred . . . and he bled red . . . or something like that.”
“I did not say anything of the kind. There was no fly named Fred. Flies don’t have names.”
“I wonder why.”
“I don’t know why, I don’t care. What was I talking about?”
“Some guy named Fred.”
“Yes, of course.” I resumed my pacing. “There was this dog named Fred, see, and I met him at a ranch rodeo. He was sitting in the back of a big Dodge pickup with a Cummins diesel engine, and he thought he was hot stuff. He started running his big mouth . . .” I heard a door slam down at the house. I stopped in my tracks and turned to Drover. “It’s Sally May.”
“You said it was Fred.”
“She’s leaving for town!”
“I thought it was a rodeo. Boy, I get confused.”
“Drover, this is my opportunity to set things straight with the Lady of the House. I must go to her!”
I turned and made a dash for the house. Behind me, I heard a faint voice. “Wait, you just got out of the sewer!”
It was Drover’s voice, but I didn’t have time to think about what he’d said. And that was fine. Listening to Drover can rot your mind.
Chapter Five: Spurned by Sally May
As I went streaking toward the house, I had only one thought shining in the part of my mind that hadn’t been rotted away by Drover’s nonsense: I had to set things straight with Sally May.
Yes, it was time for us to heal all the wounds that had kept us apart for so many years. It was time for me to confess and time for her to forgive. This tension between us had gone on long enough.
I only hoped that I could get there in time, before she sped away and drove all the way into town with this burden on her heart. Brooding is bad for people, for dogs, for all creatures on this earth. It’s much better to get everything out into the open—to share, to cry, to laugh. It cleanses the soul.
A lot of dogs wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. When things go sour at the house, they just shrug and say, “So what?” Not me, fellers. Beneath all the iron and steel, I have a tender heart, and it won’t rest until things are right.
As I went ripping past the machine shed, I saw her coming out of the house, and my heart leaped for joy. She hadn’t left yet! She was wearing a pretty white dress. She’d fixed her hair, and I noticed a kind of glow on her face. She looked beautiful and happy and excited about having an afternoon to herself.
Yes, this was the time to work things out.
Loper came out on the porch, holding Baby Molly in his arms and waving good-bye. “Have a great time, hon.”
Little Alfred was there, too, and he waved good-bye. “Bye, Mom! We’ll miss you.”
She came out the gate, glowing like the morning sun. She walked toward the car. I would have to pick up the pace to get there before she drove away. See, I already had this deal planned out. It was going to be a very special event. Instead of just doing Leaps of Joy or licking her ankles, I intended to throw myself into her arms, smother her with doggly devotion, and lick every square inch of her face.
Then she would know for sure that . . . well, that I felt pretty bad about robbing her bird feeder and knocking it on the ground. And I did. I felt terrible about it. I was embarrassed, humiliated, and very very sorry . . . even though her scheming little cat had caused the whole thing.
No, wait. I wouldn’t blame it on the cat this time. I had done it to myself. It was my own fault, and I would take full responsibility. I would make a confession, throw myself on her mercy, and let the chipmunks fall on the woodchucks.
She reached for the handle on the car door. I pushed the throttle lever up to Turbo Five. She opened the door. I fed the targeting information to Data Control and locked it into the computer.
Ten feet. Nine feet. Eight feet.
She turned and saw me coming and . . . yipes. Her face . . . I can’t describe what happened to her face, but fellers, it went from being radiant and warm into an expression that sent cold chills down my backbone. I hit Full Air Brakes and came to a sliding stop.
In the dead silence, I beamed her a smile that said, “Hey, Sally May, great news. I’m here!”
She leveled a finger at me, and I mean like the barrel of a gun, and hissed, “Don’t you even get close to me!”
Huh?
Gee, what was the deal? I hadn’t said anything. I hadn’t done anything. I’d just gotten there.
She wrinkled her nose and puckered her mouth. “
Where have you been? You smell like a dead horse . . . and YOU’RE GREEN!”
Green? Oh, yes, Emerald Pond, remember? Okay, sure, I’d been to the spa and that explained everything. She had caught the scent of my deep manly . . .
Just then, I noticed that the car door was hanging open. Hmm. Maybe she wanted me to ride into town with her. Hey, that made sense. I mean, she was probably in a hurry, and the ride into town would give us plenty of time to talk and share and patch things up.
I started toward the open door.
She shrank back. “Hank, get away! Loper, call your dog! If he jumps into my car, I’ll murder him! I’m not kidding!”
Murder? Gee, that didn’t sound good. I stopped in my tracks.
From the porch, Loper’s voice boomed. “Hank, for crying out loud, get away!”
Sally May dived into the car and slammed the door behind her, started the motor, and glared at me through the window glass. Her lips moved and she seemed to be saying something, but I couldn’t make out her words.
I moved toward the car and delivered several barks that said, “I’ll take care of the ranch while you’re gone. And Sally May, I’ll be right here when you get back!”
She rolled her window down a crack. “You are the most repulsive . . . STAY OUT OF THE SEWER!”
She went ripping away, spraying me with dirt and gravel. It left me with the impression that, well, our relationship still needed some work. Quite a lot of work.
Something about my smell had set her off. I mean, did you notice that she’d called me “repulsive”? That’s pretty strong language, and it made me wonder . . . wait! I figured it out. I hadn’t spent enough time in Emerald Pond! I hadn’t given the waters enough time to do their magic. Those waters are powerful, but they need time to soak into every pore. Foolish me, I had done a quick in-and-out instead of . . .
But don’t forget why I had gotten out so soon: birdseed. And the thought of birdseed sent my mind racing back to the little crook who had created this whole tragic situation. As the cloud of dust drifted away, I turned a murderous glare toward the yard . . . and there he was.
Pete. He was lounging in the iris patch, wearing that insolent smirk that drives me nuts. He batted his eyelids and waved.
Loper was still standing on the porch, so pounding the cat into rubble wasn’t an option. Instead, I yelled out, “Pete, you’re despicable!”
“I know, Hankie. How was the birdseed?”
“It was . . . Pete, you have a sick mind, and one of these days . . .”
“Yes?”
You know, I couldn’t think of a good snappy reply. That happens sometimes, and it’s really frustrating. You think of it two days later, when it doesn’t do any good.
I whirled around and stormed away, holding my head at a proud angle. I hadn’t won a clear moral victory over the little snake, but, by George, I could deprive him of my presence. If you think about it, that was pretty tough punishment, leaving the cat alone with himself. Nobody deserves Pete more than Pete.
I marched up the hill to the machine shed and headed straight toward the overturned Ford hubcap that held a fresh supply of . . . I know what you’re thinking: I had spent quite a lot of time bad-mouthing Cheapo dog food and listing its shortcomings, but let me tell you something. The more you learn about bird food, the more you appreciate dog food, even the Cheapo Brand.
Yes, it was made out of garbage, but it was honest garbage. Yes, it was hard to chew, but once you ran it through the crusher and swallowed it down, it didn’t send your body into convulsions. By George, once it landed in your stomach, it stayed there. No tricks, no surprises, just good honest American dog food.
Furthermore, if the folks at the feedstore needed a famous personality to plug the Cheapo Brand, they could use my name. How about this for a catchy little jingle they could print on the sack. “Try Cheapo. Good taste isn’t everything.” Or how about this one. “Buy Cheapo. Eating doesn’t have to be fun.”
Hey, do you suppose we could turn that into a song? I’m not sure. It’ll be tough, but let’s give it a shot. Here we go!
Eating Doesn’t Have to Be Fun
Eating doesn’t have to be fun.
It’s something that we do to stay alive.
Dining isn’t merely entertainment.
What we hope is to survive.
Cheapo dog food’s hard as rock.
It’s guaranteed to cause a shock,
Like chewing nails or oyster shell . . .
It helps you to ignore the smell.
Our people never ask for our opinion
When they’re shopping for our grub.
In fact, we’d rather have a kind of groceries
We can grind up without a club.
A sirloin steak would sure be nice,
But all they see’s the bargain price.
If Cheapo’s cheap, they’ll buy a ton.
Look out, stomach, here it comes!
Oh well, there’s more to life than what’s for dinner.
We eat to live, not live to eat.
If Cheapo keeps the ranch from going bankrupt,
We’ll just pretend that it’s made of meat.
But that’s a joke, we know it’s not.
They make it out of all kinds of rot.
A loyal dog will never frown,
Just hold his nose and choke it down.
The future holds a lot of indigestion.
The stuff is bought and the deed is done . . .
But just remember
That eating doesn’t have to be fun.
Pretty good, huh? You bet, and you know, I came up with it on the spur of the boot . . . the boot of the shovel . . . the rowel of the spur . . . the spur of the moment, there we go. It just popped into my head, and I think it turned out pretty well.
Anyway, I went to the overturned Ford hubcap and began . . . you know, the longer that stuff sits in a bowl, the harder it gets. It was pretty stiff. Rocks. Gravel. And even though it didn’t taste so great . . . it tasted pretty bad. Petrified goat pellets.
It was awful! How could they sell this garbage? Yuck!
You know what the Cheapo motto ought to be? “Tired of your dog? Give him Cheapo! He’ll move out.”
Phooey. Maybe by tomorrow, I would be desperate enough to finish eating the stuff, but at the moment . . .
A chicken? A chicken was standing right beside me, and all at once I noticed . . . well, drumsticks and Buffalo wings and pullybones. Hmmm.
No, wait, hold everything, stop, halt. It was a rooster. His name was J. T. Cluck and . . . well, we were more or less friends, so forget that I said anything about the . . . You-Know-Whats.
See, when you’re hungry, it’s hard to be friends with a chicken. No kidding. I mean, you talk about a moral struggle! Ranch dogs have to live with this twenty-four hours a day, and let me tell you, fellers, it’s a test of inner strength and discipline. Some of us can handle the pressure and some of us, uh . . . how can I say this?
Okay, do you want to hear a deep, dark secret? I’m talking about the kind of secret that lurks in the deepest darkest dungeon of a dog’s mind. It’s the kind of secret we seldom share with the outside world, because . . . well, because it could get a dog in a world of trouble. But I’m going to reveal it. Here it is:
There isn’t a ranch dog in the whole state of Texas that hasn’t suffered a lapse in the Chicken Department.
Do you understand what that means? You know, it’s probably better if you don’t, because we’re talking about . . . just forget that I brought it up. In fact, I didn’t. I said nothing, almost nothing at all, about slurpens . . . chickens, that is, except that one was standing right beside me, and that’s the honest truth.
Whew! This is a very touchy subject. I hope you understand.
No, I hope you don’t understand. L
et’s skip it.
Chapter Six: J. T. Cluck’s Report
Where were we? Oh yes. J. T. Cluck, the head rooster, had crept up behind me. He stood on one leg with his other leg pulled up under his wing, and he said, “Oh, here you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. I should have known you’d be eating . . . again.”
“Again? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, seems like every time I look around, you’ve got your face stuck in that dog bowl.”
“Yeah? Well, every time I look around, you’re chasing bugs. I guess we all have to eat.”
“Never thought about it that way.” He craned his neck and peered into the bowl. “Is that stuff pretty good?”
“Try it yourself, be my guest.”
“This ain’t a trick, is it?”
“It’s not a trick. I’m the kind of dog who doesn’t mind sharing.”
“Huh. Well, that’s a new one. All right, maybe I’ll give it a peck or two.” He gave it two pecks. “It’s kind of hard, ain’t it?” He pecked again, really whammed it. He drew back his head, coughed, and spit it out. “You eat this stuff all the time?”
“Not all the time. It’s a new brand, Cheapo.”
“Well, it kind of explains your generosity.” He laid a wing on my shoulder and winked. “It never hurts to be generous with slop, does it?”
I gave him a shove backward. “Is that the thanks I get for sharing my food with a chicken? Fine, skip it, sorry I bothered.”
“Well, you don’t need to get all hateful about it. All I meant was . . .” His eyes popped open, and he pounded his chest with a wing. “Uh-oh, here it comes.”
I glanced around and saw nothing unusual. “Here what comes?”
“The galloping heartburn. I should have known.”
I let out a groan. “Do I have to hear another story about your heartburn?”
“Well, no, I reckon you could leave, but if you stay around here, you’re going to hear about it, ’cause when it hits, it hits hard.” He bugged out his eyes and let out a ridiculous little chicken burp. “Yep, this is going to be a bad one, I can tell.”
The Case of the Coyote Invasion Page 3