The Case of the Missing Birddog

by John R. Erickson

  He moved closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “So you know about the moon?”

  “The moon? You mean that it’s made of cheese? Of course I know it, Pete. Astrolomy is one of my fields of interest.”

  “No, I mean the phases of the moon, Hankie. When the moon reaches a certain phase, it causes cats and dogs to . . . chew their paws.”

  The air hissed out of my lungs. “Pete, that’s one of the dumbest things you’ve ever said.”

  His left eyebrow rose ever so slightly. Maybe he thought I didn’t notice, but I did. I saw it and sent it up to Data Control.

  “It’s true, Hankie. Did you happen to notice what Drover’s doing this very minute?”

  “Ha. I notice everything, Pete. Nothing escapes my . . . okay, maybe he’s chewing his paw, and of course I noticed it right away, but that doesn’t mean . . .” I moved closer to the cat. “What’s going on here, Pete? I don’t want to fall for another of your sneaky tricks, but I don’t want to miss anything either. What’s the deal?”

  I stared into his . . . hmm, into his moon-shaped eyes, and . . . holy smokes, was that another clue? Phases of the moon, moon-shaped eyes.

  Something strange was going on here. I had to plunge deeper into the mystery.

  Pete took his sweet time in answering. “Well, Hankie, all I know is that the moon sends out powerful signals, and all the animals in the whole world respond by”—he batted his eyes—“chewing their paws.”

  “Yes, but there’s just one hole in your ointment, Pete. Every animal in the world isn’t chewing his paw, because I’m not.”

  “Um-hmm, and if I were you, Hankie, I’d start worrying about that.”

  I laughed in his face and walked a few steps away. “Ha, ha, ha! Me worry? No chance of that, Kitty, for you see . . .” I paced back to him. “Why should I be worried? I mean, I really don’t care what you say, Pete, and there’s no chance that I’ll believe this ridiculous story, but . . . uh . . . why should I be worried? I mean, just for grins, I’d like to hear this.”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “I didn’t say that. Of course I know, but I want to find out if you know. And frankly, Pete, I doubt that you do.”

  His brows rose. “Oh, I do know, Hankie. It would mean that you’re out of phase with the moon.”

  “Out of phase with . . . is that bad?”

  A low whistle escaped his lips, and he turned his gaze away from me. “I was sure you knew, Hankie, or I never would have brought it up.”

  “What are you saying, cat? Out with it.”

  “Nothing, Hankie. Don’t give it another thought. I’m sure it won’t happen to you.”

  “You bet it won’t, and do you know why? Because there’s nothing to it. It’s a pack of lies, just another of your sneaky tricks. Sorry, Kitty, no sale here, and that’s all the time I can afford to waste on you today. Good-bye. I have a ranch to run.”

  As I turned to leave, I heard his parting words. “Good-bye, Hank.”

  On hearing those two words, I knew that I was in serious trouble. Did you get the hidden message? Maybe not, because it was pretty subtitled, so let me explain. Subtle. See, Pete never called me Hank. He always called me Hankie, and he always said it in that simpering, whiny voice of his. But this time he’d called me Hank, in a normal voice.

  The meaning was clear, and it went through me like a jolt of electric current. See, the cat knew that I was out of phase with the moon—and even more onimous, he understood the terrible consequences of being out of phase with the moon.

  You know what I did? I walked away from him at a casual pace and wandered back to my gunny­sack bed. I watched him out of the corner of my periphery and saw that he was drifting back up to the yard. Then and only then did I dare to . . .

  You may find this hard to believe, but I began . . . gnawing my, uh, left front paw.

  I know, I know. A guy should never take advice from a cat or believe anything a cat says, but on this occasion, I just couldn’t afford to take a chance. I mean, this was something entirely new to us. Nobody in the Security Division had heard about these Deadly Moonbeams. We had no idea what kind of catastrophic . . .

  There, you see? Another mysterious clue just popped up: CAT-astrophic. Cat. Pete. Do you see the pattern here? No, we couldn’t risk a disaster, so I . . . well, I began chewing my paw, and we’re talking about serious bites. Kack-kack-kack. I was in the midst of this Anti-Moonbeam Procedure when . . .

  Drover was there, grinning down at me. “Oh, hi. What you doing?”

  “I’m . . . it’s very complicated, Drover, and I’m not sure you’d understand.”

  “I’d say you’re chewing your paw, is what I’d say.”

  I tore myself away from my business long enough to give him a stern glare. “Sit down, son, I’ve got some news for you.”

  “Uh-oh. Good or bad?”

  “Both. Sit down.”

  “Can we skip the bad news? I hate bad news.”

  “Just sit down. We’ll take the bad with the good.” He sat down. “Drover, the bad news is that the Earth is being bombarded with Deadly Moon­beams.” He gave me a vacant stare and said nothing. “Hello? Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t figure out if that’s good or bad.”

  “It’s bad. How could Deadly Moonbeams be good?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen one.”

  “Because they’re virtually invisible, Drover, and therefore hard to see.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’ve never seen one.”

  “That’s what I just said. That which is invisible can’t be seen.”

  “I’ll be derned. I never would have thought of that. What’s the good news?”

  “The good news is that we now know why you’ve been chewing your paw. It has nothing to do with your being a moron.”

  “Oh good.”

  “There’s a reason for it, a scientific reason.”

  “Yeah. I’m bored.”

  “No, it’s much more complicated than that. You see . . .” At this point, I launched myself into a full and complete scientific explanation of this mysterious process. Would you care to listen in? I must warn you: it’s pretty complicated. If you think you can handle heavy-duty scientific stuff, keep on reading.

  Chapter Three: The Deadly Moonbeams

  Okay, here we go. I told Drover to sit down and listen carefully.

  “First off, you must realize that if you take the r out of moron, you get the word moon. Do you see what this means?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “Nor do I, but I’m sure it’s an important clue. Now, to counteract the effect of these Deadly Moonbeams, we dogs chew our paws. It’s a natural protective reaction, perfectly rational and sane.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  “It means that we are now free to chew our paws.”

  “Gosh, I thought you said it was disgusting.”

  “That was before we learned about the Deadly Moonbeams.”

  “I’ll be derned. Who thought of that?”

  I stared at him for a long time. “Why do you ask? Do you think I would fall for someone else’s phony research? Is it possible that you don’t trust my judgment in scientific matters of science?”

  “Well, I just wondered. It sounds like something Pete might come up with—kind of crazy. But you’d never believe anything Pete said . . . would you?”

  I, uh, turned my gaze away from him. “Drover, do you want to go on asking empty questions or do you want to have a good scientific reason for chewing your paw? You can’t have it both ways.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll take Number Two.”

  “Good. Then chew your paw, and be glad you have a reason for doing it.”

  He gave me a big grin and began gnawing at his paw. I dropped down on my gunnysack an
d did the same.

  Kack-kack-kack. Kack-kack-kack.

  It was kind of a touching moment—two members of the elite Security Forces, chewing our paws and protecting ourselves from the Deadly Moon­beams. It had been a long time since Drover and I had shared such a meaningful occasion. And you know what? It worked. We both survived.

  It was a good thing, too, for at that very moment, we heard the sounds of an approaching vehicle. We cocked our respective ears and listened.

  “That pickup is coming this way, Drover. Bearing: three-two-zirro-zirro. Range: three hundred yards. Okay, this could be it. You remember that secret report about phases of the moon?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good. This has nothing to do with phases of the moon, so just forget the report.”

  “I already did.”

  “This has to do with vehicles sneaking onto our ranch. Do you remember our procedures?”

  “Well . . .”

  “We’ll go straight into Code Three, scramble all aircraft, and intercept him in front of the house, which will put us on a course heading of one-five-zirro. You got that?”

  “Oh . . . I’ll just run and bark.”

  I shot him a hot glare. “Don’t bark until I give the signal. Do you know why?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Because, Drover, the success of our mission . . . nay, our very lives, could depend on the element of surprise. We’ll maintain Barkosilence until I give the word. Then, we’ll go into some Stage One barking and see what happens. Is that clear?” I caught him yawning. “Why are you yawning only moments before a combat mission?”

  “Oh, ’cause that’s when I needed to yawn . . . I guess. And I didn’t think I could wait.”

  “Ha! You can wait and you will wait. We’ll have no . . .” Hmmm. All at once I felt a powerful urge to . . . uh . . . yawn, you might say. I mean, it was crazy. There we were, poised on the brink of . . . I yawned. “Okay, soldier, go ahead and take a quick yawn. We might need it later on.”

  He gave me a silly grin. “Well . . . I don’t need to now.”

  “Take a yawn! That’s a direct order.” At last he took his yawn. “Okay, good. Now we’ve had a good yawn and our tanks are filled with carbon diego. Stand by to launch all dogs. Three! Two! One! Charge, bonzai!”

  Boy, you should have seen us. It was very impressive. Within seconds, we had launched ourselves into the still morning air. We went swooping away from Home Base and roared around the south side of the yard until we reached the Staging Point. There we . . .

  HUH?

  Yipes, there we suddenly found ourselves on a collision course with . . . it was a pickup, see, a huge ranch pickup, and it was barreling down that little hill in front of the house, and at that very moment—

  HONK! HONK!

  Okay, it appeared that he was blowing his horn and encouraging us to . . .

  “Get out of the road, idiot!”

  . . . encouraging us to, well, get out of the road, as you might say. I dived out of the way just in the nickering of time to avoid being smashed. It was a very difficult maneuver, and no ordinary dog could have pulled it off.

  Drover came running over to me. “Gosh, that was close. Are you okay?”

  In a cloud of caliche dust, I glared after the villain’s pickup. “I’m okay, Drover, but that guy’s fixing to get a tooth tattoo. Did you see what he did?”

  “Oh yeah. He had to swerve to miss you.”

  “That’s not what he did. He swerved and tried to hit me. If I hadn’t jumped just in time, he would have creamed me. You know what I think? I think he’s a cattle rustler.” There was a long moment of silence. I noticed that Drover was staring toward the pickup with dreamy eyes.

  Wait. With dreamy eyes, Drover stared at the pickup. The pickup didn’t have dreamy eyes. Drover did. With dreamy eyes, he stared at the . . . never mind.

  “Hello? Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Yeah, but he’s not a rustler. Do you see who that is?”

  I picked myself out of the weeds, and so forth, and cast a glance to the west. The pickup had pulled up in front of the corrals. Slim stepped out of the saddle shed and waved at the stranger.

  “No, I don’t recognize the pickup. Who is it?”

  “It’s Billy, our neighbor down the creek.”

  “Yes? And is that supposed to be a big deal? Hurry, Drover, we have a very busy day ahead of us.”

  His eyes were still glazed over. “She’s with him, riding in the back.”

  I craned my neck and squinted my eyes at the pickup. I could see nothing unusual. “She? Who is she, Drover? Be specific. We need facts here.”

  “Oh my gosh, I think it’s . . . Beulah!”

  HUH?

  My goodness, the very mention of her name . . . I studied the pickup with dreamy eyes, and sure enough . . . “Drover, you wait here. I’ll go down and check this thing out.”

  “I want to go too. I saw her first.”

  “And that’s why we need to hold you in reserve. It’s a little reward for a job well done.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Don’t argue. I’m doing this for my own good. Now wait here until I give you the signal.”

  He hung his head. “Oh, drat.”

  “And we’ll have no more of your naughty language. Wait here and chew your paw.”

  And with that, I left the dunce sitting beside the yard fence whilst I went streaking down to the corrals to greet . . . SIGH . . . the Woman of My Dreams, the world’s most gorgeous collie gal, she of the flaxen hair and the long sharp nose, she of the big dreamy eyes, the lovely Miss Beulah the Collie.

  WOW!

  With my heart pounding in my ears, I went streaking down to the corrals, screeched to a halt beside her pickup, put on my most rakish smile, and looked up into her . . .

  Bird dog? Spotted bird dog? Holy smokes, her entire face had been transformed into . . . I mean, where was the flaxen hair, the long collie nose, the . . . HUH?

  Okay, relax. You thought Miss Beulah had been transformed into a bird dog? Ha, ha. No, she had merely moved to the other side of the pickup, see, and her place had been taken by . . .

  Have we discussed bird dogs? Maybe not. I don’t like ’em, never have, and there’s one bird dog in the whole world that I dislike even more than the rest. Plato. And there he was, grinning down at me with his big sloppy tongue hanging out of the left side of his mouth.

  My rakish look melted, replaced by a curled lip and narrowed eyes. But of course he didn’t notice any of it. He was too dumb to know how much I disliked him.

  He appeared to be . . . what was he doing up there? Jumping up and down? Running in place?

  “By golly, Hank, there you are. Great to see you again, just great. I was just telling Bunny Cakes this very morning, I said, ‘Bunny Cakes, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen old Hank.’ I did, no kidding. Now isn’t that a coincidence?”

  “Who is Bunny Cakes? Have you been chasing rabbits again?”

  “Oh heavens no! No, Hank, our guidelines are very . . . oh, I see, you were joking, right? Ha, ha. You’re the same old Hank, always the life of the party.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s me.”

  “Right. Great. No, the truth is, Hank,” he gave me a secret wink and lowered his voice, “Beulah and I have little names we call each other.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I call her Bunny Cakes and she calls me . . . this might sound silly, Hank.”

  “Oh surely not.”

  “Thanks. She calls me . . . Honey Bumpers.”

  I stared into his empty bird dog eyes. “Honey Bumpers?”

  “Right. Hey, I know it must sound silly to everyone else, but you know, Hank, we’re so happy, we just . . .”

  “What are you doing up there?”

 
; “Doing? Oh, you mean the jogging? I’ve been doing my exercise program, Hank. Quail season’s here, and you know what, Hank?”

  “No. What?”

  “Hank, I’m in the best shape of my whole life. I’m serious. I have a feeling this is going to be the best season ever. By golly, I can hardly wait. How about yourself?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m doing all right . . . for a guy with a broken heart.”

  “Great. Well listen, Hank, I think I’ll run some laps while I’m fresh. Maybe you’d like to talk to Beulah, huh? I’ll join you in five minutes.”

  And with that, the creep flew out of the pickup and started running around ranch headquarters like . . . I don’t know what. Like a demented bird dog chasing phantom quail, I guess. And he couldn’t have looked any sillier if he had tried.

  When he was gone, I saw her lovely face come into view above me. My knees began to tremble. Cold chills skated down my backbone, and then hot chills skated back up. My breaths came in short stabbing bursts, my heart began to race, and my head began to swirl. And then . . .

  Kack-kack-kack.

  Chapter Four: My Heart Is Dashed to Pieces

  It was weird. I mean, when a guy’s looking up into the eyes of the most gorgeous collie gal in the whole world, the last thing he wants to do is . . . well, start chewing on his paw, right? But all at once I felt this overpowering urge to . . .

  It must have been nerves. Hey, there she was, the same lady dog who had visited my dreams so many times, so many thousands of times, and all at once my mind was whirling like a windmill fan in a storm and my heart was about to jump out of my chest, and so . . . well, it was only natural that I would . . .

  She gave me an odd smile. “Hello, Hank. What are you doing?”

  Kack-kack-kack.

  “Well, I seem to be . . . chewing my foot, I guess you might say. How are you, my little sugarplum?”

  “Fine, thank you, but . . . why are you . . . chewing your foot?”

  Kack-kack-kack.

  “You don’t want to know, Beulah. Don’t even ask. You seem to be having a good life, so don’t bother yourself with my problems.”