“Oh?”
“I want you to listen to this song.”
Chapter Ten: A Clever Plan to Sweep Miss Beulah Off Her Feet
My Heart Is Up for Rent
Now Frank, Miss Beulah, my amor,
That collie gal that I adore,
Has managed to escape my snares and traps.
I know it doesn’t make much sense,
That she’s resisted such a prince,
But she derned sure has, and that is just a fact.
I’ve gone to visit her at night,
Howled at the moon, got into fights,
And once I even tried rolling on a skunk.
That coyote trick didn’t hardly work,
She’s still in love with that same old jerk
Named Plato, and my hopes are pret’ near sunk.
Oh, my heart is up for rent,
My love’s been living in a tent.
I struck a spark and built a fire.
And got the heartburn of desire.
This game of love is pretty rough,
I’ve had this heartburn long enough.
But what the heck’s a dog supposed to do?
You chase the girls, they run away,
But if you quit, they want to play.
Who wrote these dadgum rules, I’m asking you?
Miss Beulah’s tough as nails, I fear,
The hardest case of my career,
I just don’t understand what makes her tick.
Now, surely, Frank, there’s ways and means
Of working me into her dreams.
It’s time for me to find a magic trick.
Oh, my heart is up for rent,
My love’s been living in a tent.
I struck a spark and built a fire.
And got the heartburn of desire.
Well Hank, it happens that you’ve found
A fiddlin’ fox who’s been around
And knows a thing or two ’bout charming gals.
See, all I do to turn it on
Is tell this fiddle to play a song,
And soon I have ’em standin’ in my corrals.
So if that heartburn’s got you down,
And if you’re tired of being a clown,
Just give old Frankie the Fox your shopping list.
I’ll play a jig, I’ll play a song,
She’ll think she was hit by an atom bomb,
I tell you, son, this fiddle has never missed.
Oh, my heart is up for rent,
My love’s been living in a tent.
I struck a spark and built a fire.
And got the heartburn of desire.
I’ll play a jig, I’ll call a dance,
That collie gal won’t have a chance.
That empty heart will soon be occupied, brother.
That empty heart will soon be occupied.
When we were done with the song, Frankie turned to me and smiled. “Say no more. It will be done.”
And you know what? In three minutes’ time, me and that fox had worked out a plan that was guaranteed to sweep the lovely Miss Beulah off her feet, into my awaiting arms, and out of the clutches of Plato the bird dog.
Have I mentioned Plato before? Yes, of course I have. Plato had been a thorn in my paw for a long time, the problem being that, for reasons I had never understood, Beulah had some silly attachment to the mutt.
How any woman in her right mind could choose a bird dog over . . . but let’s don’t get started on that. The point is that for years and years I had searched for the magic formula, the secret love potion, the shortcut to her heart, only to be turned away and disappointed. Crushed, actually.
Devastated.
Destroyed.
Left sitting in the ruins of a love story.
Completely wrecked emotionally, hardly able to eat or drink or carry on my work.
Just, by George, wiped out.
On the other hand, I had never had a fiddle-playing fox working for me. If he could charm eggs out of a bunch of hens, there was a real good chance that . . . heh. It hardly seemed fair, but who wants to be fair anyway?
We didn’t wait for darkness to fall, but set out right away for Beulah’s place. Did I feel good? No sir, I felt absolutely splendifferous!
We followed the creek until we came to that section of dense willows that lies just below the house. Then we turned south and proceeded in a . . . well, a southerly direction, of course.
As planned, Frankie took cover behind a big native elm on the north edge of the yard, and I went on. I hadn’t gone far when I came upon The Bird Dog.
He was practicing his pointing routines—creeping up on an old tennis shoe and then freezing, with his nose and tail sticking straight out at opposite ends of his body, and one foot poised in the air.
As you may know, bird dogs get very serious about such things as tennis shoes and old socks, and Plato was so absorbed in bird-dogging his tennis shoe that he didn’t hear me creeping up behind him.
And I, being something of a prankster, couldn’t resist giving him a little shock. At the same moment, I yelled, “Dog-eating tennis shoe!” And gave him a good swat on the behind.
“AAAAAA-EEEEEEE!”
Ho ho, his little pointing routine fell apart—hee, hee—as he flew straight up in the—ha, ha—air, I loved it. He had run a good 10 yards before he figgered out that he hadn’t been attacked by a dog-eating tennis shoe. At that point, he stopped and came back, looking a little embarrassed.
“Well, by golly, you gave me quite a scare! Good old Hank, always good for a laugh. Hank, you won’t believe this, but just this very morning, I said to Beulah, I said, ‘Honey-lamb, I wonder what’s happened to our old friend Hank.’”
“Honey-lamb?”
“That’s Beulah, that’s what I call her, and she calls me Sugarbun. It probably sounds silly.”
“Yeah, probably does.”
“But Hank, we’re just as happy as a couple of larks down here, couldn’t be better, every little thing is just wonderful!”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Isn’t it though? That’s what I tell Beulah, and oh, I’ll bet you want to see her. Honey-lamb!” He called her and then gave me a wink. “She’ll be SO surprised to see you here, and I’m SO happy for her! You two get together and talk about old times, Hank, and I’ll go on and finish my workout, and then we’ll all get together and talk and laugh and just have a wonderful time.”
“You bet.”
“Make yourself at home, Hank. What’s mine is yours.”
“Yes, I know.”
He went on with his workout, never dreaming what schemes were bubbling in my mind.
I hid behind a little bush and watched her coming down from the front porch: the fine collie nose, the flaxen hair, the deep brown eyes, the ears that flapped in the breeze.
Mercy! Any dog would gladly give his life for such a woman. Fortunately, I had come up with a better plan.
“Plato? Plato, did you call?” She still hadn’t seen me. About 10 feet away, she stopped and looked around.
I stepped from the bush, and in a voice as thick and sweet as sorghum molasses, I said, “Hello, Beulah.”
I saw the startled look come into her eyes as old memories came rushing to the surface. She was startled, puzzled, bewildered, and then torn between the true love she’d always felt for me and the false, counterfeit, shabby emotions she felt for Plato.
Yes, I could see it all passing across her face in the space of a few seconds. Finally she spoke. “Why . . . Hank! What are you doing here?”
I gave her a secret smile. “I think you know, Beulah.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“Of course you do. I’ve come to save you.”
&n
bsp; “Save . . . me? Save me from what?”
“You know, Beulah, and I know that you know, and you know that I know that you know, and there’s no sense in pretending.”
“Oh Hank, I hope you’re not still thinking about . . . us.”
I laughed and immediately switched to Plan B. “Oh no. No. No, no. I have my life and you have yours.”
She sighed and began to relax, heh heh. “That’s right, Hank, and I’m glad.”
“You have your life, Beulah, and I have mine, and we’ve gone our separate ways.”
“But we can still be friends.”
“Exactly. Yes, the best of friends who can talk and laugh and share secret thoughts.”
“I’ve always enjoyed talking to you, Hank. You’re a very interesting dog, and in many ways . . . well, we mustn’t stir the waters.”
“No indeed, Beulah. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us because, after all, we have our own lives and that’s the way it ought to be. Why, if one of us didn’t have a life . . . there would be only one of us left, I guess you’d say, and that would be no fun at all.”
“Oh Hank,” she laughed, and hey, I could see that old sparkle in her eyes, “you have such a funny way of saying things.”
“Yes indeed, my sweet darling, uh, friend . . . friend of many years and shared experiences, and why don’t we take a little walk down by that big native elm tree? It’s a beautiful tree, don’t you think?”
I began easing her towards the tree.
“Well, yes, I suppose it is.”
“Gorgeous tree. I’ve always admired that tree. You know, Beulah, the problem with dogs today is that they don’t take the time to appreciate the beauty of trees.”
She laughed again. “Is that the problem with dogs today? I had wondered.”
“Yes indeed, just move along, my dear, that’s better, just a few more steps and, bingo, here we are.”
We had reached the base of the tree, on the other side of which lurked my secret musical weapon.
“Well,” she said, taking a deep breath of fragrant air, “it is a very nice tree. What shall we talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know, why don’t we talk about fiddle music?”
“Fiddle music?”
“Sure, why not? For years we’ve never talked about fiddle music. Tell me, my, uh, friend, my good friend, what do you think of fiddle music?”
For a moment she ducked her head. Then her big dewy eyes came up and she smiled. “I suppose you already know that I just LOVE fiddle music, but I’m sorry to say that I never get to hear enough of it.”
Ho boy, was this deal working? Old Hank had set the trap of love, and now he was fixing to release the spring.
Chapter Eleven: The Trap of Love Backfires
Beulah, my prairie winecup, I can’t say that I knew that you loved fiddle music, but I did sort of suspect it. Now, if you will close your eyes, I will produce from the ectoplasmic vapors of the atmosphere some of the most gorgeous fiddle music you have ever heard.”
She twisted her head and gave me a puzzled look. “Are you joking? How can you . . . ?”
“Never mind the questions, my little sunflower. Close your eyes, open your ears, and hang on to your heart. Ready? Here we go!”
Good old Frankie the Fox! He came in right on cue and played a real pretty little number. I watched my prey . . . uh, my darling as she swayed back and forth with the pure sweet sounds of the fiddle. I could see that she was becoming vulnerable and more vulnerable all the time.
“Beulah, may I have the honor of this dance?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t . . . but . . . maybe just one, for old times’ sake.”
I really didn’t care whose sake the dance was for. I took her in my paws and we became as one with each other and with the music.
All at once her eyes popped open, and she gasped, “Oh Hank, that is the most divine fiddle music I ever heard!”
“Is it now? How interesting, yes, but keep your eyes closed, my buttercup.”
“Hank, what is the name of that song?”
The music stopped. “Uh, ‘Just Friends,’” said the fox.
“Quiet, Frankie, I’ll handle this. The tune is called ‘Just Friends,’ my darling, which doesn’t really describe . . .”
Her eyes popped open again. “Hank, I simply MUST find out where it’s coming from!”
“Oh no, I don’t think . . .”
“WHO IS THAT FIDDLE PLAYER?”
“Oh, it’s nobody you’d . . .”
The music stopped and . . . I couldn’t believe this part . . . that sneaking no-good egg-stealing fox poked his smiling face around the trunk of the tree and he said . . .
Here’s what the sneaking, scheming, back-stabbing fox said. “Why, hello there, Miss Beulah! I was just a-sittin’ here under this tree, a-playin’ this old fiddle of mine, and I thought I heard the voice of an angel.”
She gasped and held a paw to her heart. “Are YOU the fiddle player?”
“Uh, yes ma’am,” he bowed to her, the wretch, “I have that little distinction. My name is Frankie the Fox, and I am at your service at any hour of the day or night.”
I stepped in between them. “Excuse me, Beulah, if I might intrude here to make a . . .”
She slipped past me. “Oh sir, your music is just divine!”
“Well, we thank you, ma’am. We try to do our best with the little gifts we have.”
“Oh sir, you have a wonderful gift!”
Again, I tried to push between them. “Beulah, I think this would be a good time for me to point out . . . oof!” I never dreamed that sweet Beulah would stoop to throwing elbows, but she did.
“Ma’am,” said the fox, “I’d be so proud if you’d just touch my fiddle. I do believe it would make all my music, uh, that much sweeter.”
“Why, I would just be . . . if you really thought . . . where should I touch it?”
The villain presented his fiddle. “Just place your fine, delicate, perfectly-made little paw right here.”
She closed her eyes and placed her right paw on the fiddle.” Oh, this is so exciting! And Hank, it was all your idea.”
“Well,” I scowled at the fox, “up to a point it was. However . . .”
She swooped over to me and gave me a peck on the cheek. “And there’s your reward! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just must run and tell Plato! He’ll be so excited!”
And with that, she went dashing off to find her stick-tailed friend who was off somewhere pointing tennis shoes.
“Beulah, wait! What about us? I still have important things to tell you. Beulah!”
She didn’t hear me. I turned my attention to the fox and began considering three or four ways of . . .
“Well, you sure fixed me up, Foxie.”
“Son, that is one fine lady.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that, and she’s much too fine a lady to be drooling over a common henhouse musician like you.”
“She may be the best-looking collie gal I ever laid eyes on. You’re a very, very lucky dog.”
“I’m a lucky dog? She throws herself on you and your stupid fiddle, and then runs off to tell her bird dog boyfriend about it, and I’M a lucky dog? You’ve just ruined my life, is how lucky I am.”
He gave me a puzzled look. “Son, you told me to play my fiddle, and I played my fiddle. You told me to charm that gal, and I charmed that gal.”
“Yes, but I never told you to come out and take credit for it, just as though you’d actually done something. You idiot, she fell in love with your music, not me!”
He looked at his fiddle and shrugged. “You know, Hank, this fiddle music is kinda hard to predict. Sometimes it falls on deaf ears and sometimes it don’t. A guy just has to try it out and see. If I was to try it again, I’d put a little less oomph on my bow.”
&n
bsp; “Well, you don’t need to worry about that. There won’t be another time. You’re fired, you’re through. You’ll never work for me again, I’ll see to that. Unless, of course, I want another broken heart, and in that case you’ll be the first one on my list.”
“Oh, uh shucks.”
So, thanks a lot, Frankie. In less than 12 hours’ time, you’ve helped me lose my ranch, my job, my reputation, and now My One and Only True Love. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to drop dead. And with that, I’ll say good-bye. Forever.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and don’t try to talk me out of it.”
“Son, I wouldn’t think of it.”
“No, of course not, because you’re such a selfish, heartless cad. You know very well that I have no place to go and that I’m a dog without a country, but do you care about that?”
“Well now, of course I care about that.”
“No you don’t. You’re just saying that because you’re a sneaking, scheming untrustworthy fox who can’t be trusted. If you really cared, you’d . . . I don’t know what you’d do, but you’d do something. But of course you won’t because you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
Frankie sighed and turned a pair of lazy eyes in my direction. “Son, would it help your disposition at all if we went to the henhouse and got ourselves a nice big supper?”
I began pacing, as I often do when difficult decisions are pressing down upon me. I noticed that my stomach was growling.
“Frankie, we need to get one thing straight right here and now, and I mean bring it right out in the open.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m no pushover.”
“No, I figgered you weren’t.”
“For years they’ve tried to get me to sell out and compromise my principles, and every time the answer has been, ‘No dice.’”
“I see.”
“There are some things a dog just can’t do without destroying his pride.”
The Case of the Fiddle Playing Fox Page 6