“Great.”
“Elsa says I don’t get enough gravel.”
“Really? How is Elsa?”
“We need gravel for our gizzards, see, and when you don’t get enough, it kind of backs things up.”
“Boy, this weather has been nice.”
“She thinks I need more gravel, but I think it’s something else. If you ask me, there are certain kinds of food that set it off. You ever eat a spider?”
“No.”
“Buddy, you talk about heartburn! One spider, and I mean even a little bitty one, will send you up in flames.”
“J.T., I don’t care.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t eat spiders, I don’t get heartburn, and I don’t care. Stop talking about heartburn.”
He stared at me with his red rooster eyes. “Are you trying to tell me you never get indigestion?”
“That’s correct. Never.”
A nasty little grin spread across his beak. “Well, that’s funny. What were you a-doing about twenty minutes ago, down by the sewer?”
“Have you been spying on me?”
He looked up at the sky and smirked. “Well, I keep my eyes open. Old J.T. sees a lot of things.”
“Okay, I had indigestion, but it wasn’t heartburn. I got poisoned by some birdseed.”
He whipped his head around and stared at me. “Birdseed? Son, I could have told you that wouldn’t work. A dog has no business eating bird food.”
“I know that now, thanks.”
“You ain’t got a gizzard, see. It takes a good healthy gizzard to grind up all them little seeds. Heh. That was pretty dumb, you eating birdseed.”
I pushed myself up on all fours. “Why do I bother talking to a chicken? You don’t know anything, you never do anything, and all you can talk about is indigestion. I’m leaving, before I die of boredom.”
“Now hold your horses. There’s something important I need to tell you.”
I stopped and turned back to him. “Not another heartburn story?”
“No sir, this is important, and it comes straight from Elsa.”
“I’m listening.”
He rubbed his chin with a wing. “Well, let me try to remember. You got me off on the wrong track.”
“Hurry up. I’m a busy dog.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed. It’s a wonder you ain’t sprouted roots in that gunnysack bed.”
“Hurry up!”
“I’m a-getting there, I’m a-getting there.” He squinted one eye and stroked his chin. “Here we go. It was this morning, early. Elsa was pecking around them tall weeds west of the machine shed. They’ve got seeds this time of year, don’t you know, and they’re pretty tasty.”
“What’s the point?”
“Huh? The point? Well sir, the point is that she kind of strayed away from the chicken house. I’ve tried to warn her about that. I’ve told her, ‘Honey, you stray too far and one of these times, a coyote’s liable to jump out of them weeds and gobble you down.’ But she don’t listen. She’s a wonderful hen but she’s a little short on . . .” He tapped himself on the head.
“So what happened?”
“Well sir, there she was, pecking along in them weeds, when all of a sudden . . . she heard something.”
“Yes?”
“Something very strange, and it put such a scare in her, she come back, flopping her wings and squawking to beat the band and running just as fast as an old fat hen can run. She come a-running up to me and she said, ‘Oh, J.T., oh my, oh mercy me!’”
I waited for more. “Well? What was it?”
“It took me a while to get it out of her. She gets hysterical sometimes and can’t hardly talk.” He gazed off into the distance. “You know, her momma was that way, a fine woman but she took spells where all she could say was, ‘Cluck, cluck, cluck!’”
“What did Elsa say?”
“Huh? Well, she said ‘cluck’ about fifty times.”
“Is that all?”
“No sir, I finally got it out of her and . . .” He glanced over his shoulder and moved closer. “Pooch, this is liable to throw a scare into you. I want you to be ready for it.”
“I’m ready, so hurry up.”
“Well sir, what she heard was a whole army of coyotes out there in the wilderness—screeching and hollering and carrying on like I don’t know what.”
The word coyotes sent a shiver through my body. I moved closer. “Yes? Carrying on about what? Details, J.T., I need details.”
He leaned closer. “Elsa said they were singing about . . . chickens.”
“Chickens?”
“Yes sir, chickens, and you just won’t believe the awful words! I’m not sure I should say ’em.”
“Tell me, J.T. This could be important.”
“All right. They said . . . here’s exactly what they said . . . they said, ‘Wishbone. Drumstick. Pullybone. Thigh.’”
Slurp. Suddenly, my, uh, tongue shot out of my mouth. “I see what you mean. That’s shocking, all right.”
He stared at me, twisting his head to the side. “Say, did you just lick your chops?”
“Me?” I turned away from him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Go on with the story. Did Elsa get the impression that the coyotes were singing about food?”
“What do you think? Listen, pooch, a leg’s a leg, but a drumstick’s a piece of meat.”
Slurp.
“Good point. So we have coyotes out in the pasture, singing about chicken dinners. That’s not good. It could mean they’re planning an attack on the chicken house.”
“That’s right, pooch, and our Defense Com-mittee held a special meeting this very morning.” He held himself erect. “We voted to take action.”
“No kidding? What action?”
“Well sir, we all ran around in circles and squawked for five minutes, twenty-seven hens and one rooster. It was something special.”
I stared at him. “That was your action?”
“That’s right. We planned to go on for ten minutes, but everybody got tired and we had to shut ’er down.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Chickens. You ran around in circles and squawked for five minutes?”
“That’s right, and now . . .” He stuck his beak in my face. “Mister, we want to know what you’re going to do about it. I mean, when you ain’t sleeping or eating bird food, you’re supposed to be the guard dog around here.”
I pushed his beak away. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my plans, but I can tell you this: I won’t run around in circles and squawk.”
“Well, that’s probably good.” He scowled. “You know, sometimes I ain’t sure that squawking really helps, but it makes us feel like a team, you know what I’m saying? Team spirit’s important.”
For a moment, I was tempted to laugh in his face and tell him how dumb this sounded—team spirit among the chickens. But I didn’t want to be rude, so I walked away. “J.T., I’ll start an investigation and follow the usual procedures. I may have some more questions, so don’t leave town.”
He called out one last gem of chicken wisdom. “Well, that’ll be easy, mister, seeing as how we ain’t got a town. We live in the country, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Great point, J.T. Don’t speak to any coyotes.”
I chuckled all the way down to the office. What a birdbrain!
Chapter Seven: A Serious Case of Worms
I rode the elevator up to the twelfth floor and went striding into the office, checked the mail and glanced over a few reports on my desk, then flopped down on my gunnysack bed.
Only then did I notice Drover. He was lying on his stomach, with both paws out in front and his head pointed straight ahead. Suddenly it struck me that he looked exactly like the statue of the Great Squink in . . . wherever that ancient monument resid
es . . . Messitallupia . . . Pottamotamia . . . Agrippa . . . Eejippum . . . Egypt, there we go.
Let’s back up and put it all together again. He looked exactly like that famous statue in some distant land beyond the seashells. It appeared that he hadn’t moved a hair while I’d been gone.
His eyes swung around. “Oh, hi. What’s going on?”
“I’ve been out taking care of ranch business.”
“I’ll be derned. How’s business?”
“Business is mixed. My main objective was to patch up my relationship with Sally May, and that sort of blew up in my face.”
With dreamy eyes, he stared off in the distance with dreamy eyes. “Yeah, I’ve always liked blue. It’s my favorite color. Blue sky, blue ocean water . . .”
“Hey, did you hear what I said?”
He squinted and looked closer at me. “Oh, hi. Did you say something?”
“Yes, and I’d appreciate it if you would pay attention. I said, my mission to patch up my relationship with Sally May blew up in my face.” I heaved a sigh. “Drover, the woman is impossible. What does a dog have to do to please her?”
“Oh . . . stay out of the sewer, I guess.”
“I rushed down to wish her a safe journey. I was ready to heal old wounds . . . what did you say?”
“Stay out of the sewer. You stink.”
I leaped to my feet and towered over him. “Why you little . . . how dare you make slanderous remarks about your commanding officer? Have you forgotten who I am? How would you like to stand with your nose in the corner for five years, huh?”
“Hank, you stink and she hates the sewer smell. I tried to tell you.”
“Drover, that is the most outrageous . . .” My mind raced back to the scene with Sally May. “Wait a second. She did say something about the sewer . . . and my smell.” I sank back into my gunnysack. “You tried to tell me?”
“Yeah, but you never listen.”
“But why didn’t you just come out and say that?”
“I don’t know, ’cause you never listen, I guess.”
There was a long throbbing moment of silence. “Drover, we’ve been through a lot together. May I speak frankly?”
“Oh sure, you bet. My life’s an open book.”
“Drover, sometimes I feel that . . . what’s the word I’m searching for?”
“Bonehead?”
“No. Sometimes I feel that I don’t listen very well.”
“I’ll be derned.”
“It’s as though . . . well, I get so wrapped up in the big picture that I don’t pay attention to the little picture.”
“Yeah, and a picture is worth a thousand worms.”
“Exactly. Drover, I think I’ve got worms. They’re affecting my memory, my ability to hear, my ability to listen.”
“Yeah, those worms are bad. Maybe you got ’em from the birdseed.”
I leaped to my feet and began pacing, as I often do when my mind is racing. “That’s it! You’ve hit the nail right on the hammer. It’s common knowledge that birdseed is a major source of parasites.”
“I’ve always wanted to see Paris.”
“And what is the most common type of parasite?”
“Oh, most of ’em are Frenchmen, I guess.”
“Worms, Drover, a dangerous kind of internal parasite.”
“You know, the site I’d like to see is the Rifle Tower.”
I whirled around and faced him. “So there we have it. I suffer from attention lapses because I have worms. Quick, to the sewer! I must heal myself!”
I rushed out of the office, went flying down twelve flights of stairs, ran through the lobby with all its hanging chandeliers and paintings of famous dogs, sprinted all the way to Emerald Pond, and launched myself into its warm embrace.
As the waters closed around me, I felt a tingling sensation all over my body. I knew the elixirs were elixing and the tonics were tonicking, as the waters began curing my case of worms and healing my gizzardly depths.
By the time Drover arrived, huffing and puffing, I was feeling much better. “Drover, I’m healed! I feel more like myself right now than I ever have in my whole life.”
“Yeah, and you’ll smell even worse.”
“The worms are gone. I’ve got my hearing back. I can hear you as though you’re standing right there in front of me.”
“Yeah, ’cause I am.”
I waded out to the shore and gave myself a vigorous shake, sending a spray of fragrant drops in all directions. Drover cringed and backed away because, well, because he hates water. That’s another part of his weirdness.
After shaking, I scratched up dirt and rolled around in it, kicking all four legs in the air, then leaped to my feet, and shook one last time. “Look closely, Drover. Standing before you is a new dog.”
“Yeah, Sally May’s really going to be proud.”
“Indeed she will.” I marched over to him and laid a paw on his shoulder. “And Drover, we must give you some credit. You’re the one who discovered the link between the birdseed and my hearing loss. Worms!” I noticed that he was backing away from me and making a sour face. “What’s wrong?”
“Something just happened to the air.”
“Really?” I glanced around at the air. “Oh yes, I see what you mean. It’s become almost invisible, but don’t be alarmed. Air is supposed to be invisible, so all is well.”
“No, it smells like a dead horse.”
“A dead horse? Hmmm. You know, Sally May said the same thing. We’d better do an inventory of the horses. We might have lost one.” Drover fell to the ground and covered his ears with his paws. I rushed to his side. “What happened?”
He let out a moan. “You never listen. You never hear anything!”
“Drover, the reason you can’t hear anything is that your ears are covered. You can’t go through life with your ears plugged.”
“I can’t stand anymore!”
“Drover, uncover your ears, and that’s a direct order!”
He didn’t move, so I had to take matters into my own hands. The little guy needed help. I pried one of his paws away from his ear and gave him a blast of Train Horns. BWONK! It had an electrifying effect. His eyes popped open, and he sprang three feet straight up. His ears were flapping, and he appeared to be swimming through the air, moving four paws and two ears at the same time.
He made quite a sight and, heh heh, I must admit that I kind of enjoy doing Train Horns. It’s more fun with a cat, but Drover always puts on a good show.
He hit the ground with a thud, and I rushed over to him. “There, is that better?”
“Better than what?”
“Good! You can hear me now. Stand up, I have a presentation to make.” He wobbled up to a standing position, and I noticed that his eyes were crossed. “Please don’t cross your eyes. This is a solemn occasion.”
“I can’t help it. You never listen. It makes me crazy.”
“Drover, what makes you crazy is that you plug your ears and cross your eyes. It’s not normal. Now, stand up straight. I’m going to give you an award.”
His eyes came into focus and he grinned. “An award, no fooling?”
“Yes. You’re the one who found the mysterious link between birdseed and my hearing loss. It was a brilliant piece of detective work. Thanks to you, I can hear again.”
“Yeah, but you still don’t listen.”
“Exactly, and as a way of showing my gertrude, I’m going to give you a promotion.”
He beamed with pride and began wiggling his stub tail. “Gosh, no fooling?”
“Yes, I’m promoting you to First Scout.”
“First Scout, oh goodie. I’ve always wanted to be a scout.”
“And I’m sending you out on a very important assignment.”
His smile froze. “Assignm
ent?”
“See, we think there might be some trouble brewing with the coyotes. We’ve gotten a report . . .”
THUD! He hit the ground like a rock.
Chapter Eight: Drover Cheats
The little guy was rolling around on the ground and obviously in some kind of pain. “Good grief, now what?”
“Drat the luck, this old leg just quit me!”
“Drover, I’m trying to give you an award. This promotion could be very important to your career.”
“I know, but I can’t get my career off the ground when my leg doesn’t work. Oh, my leg!”
“Are you saying you can’t go on this mission?”
“Oh no, I’d never say that. I’ve got to do it . . . for the ranch!”
“That’s the spirit.”
He made a valiant attempt to regain his feet, jacking himself off the ground, one leg at a time. But once he’d made it up on all fours, he fell over like a bicycle. BAM!
“Oh, the pain! Maybe you’d better go without me.”
“Actually, I hadn’t planned on going. We’ll need someone here at headquarters to, uh, handle communications.”
“Hey, that’s the job for me.”
“It’s not the job for you. All this electronic gear is very complicated. You’d probably stick your nose into a socket and get yourself fried. No, we can’t risk leaving you here. It would be too dangerous. I think you would be much happier, going out into the wilderness to spy on the cannibals.”
I waited for him to shake off his pain, leap to his feet, and start the mission. He didn’t move. I heaved a sigh and paced a few steps away. “All right, Drover, let’s try the path of negotiation. What would it take to sweeten the deal? Let’s talk bonus, incentives, benefits . . . what would it take?”
“Gosh, I don’t know. Let me think here.” He sat up and went into a moment of deep concentration. “Anything?”
“Anything within reason.”
He gave it another minute of thought, then beamed a smile. “Just grant me one little wish.”
The Case of the Coyote Invasion Page 4