The Case of the Missing Birddog

by John R. Erickson

  Billy waved good-bye and drove away. As they were leaving, Beulah turned around and looked back at us. I waved at her, but she didn’t wave back.

  Well, that was just too bad. Hey, if she thought I was going to risk my life looking for her stick-tailed bird dog pal, she was exactly wrong. I didn’t wish the pest any bad luck, but . . . well, it appeared that he had made his own bad luck, and what was bad luck for him was no bad deal for me. Heh heh. She would get over him.

  I turned to my assistant, who was struggling to his feet. “Well, Drover, she’s a beautiful woman, but she’s a little short on common sense.”

  “Yeah, but I feel pretty awful that we didn’t help her. I’m liable to feel the guilt all day long.”

  “But I’m sure you’ll find a way to live with it. No, Drover, we made a wise decision. Saving bird dogs is for the birds, and there’s no way . . .”

  I noticed that Slim was looming over us. “Load up, boys, we’ve got work to do. Y’all want to ride up front with the executives or in the back where the mutts ride?”

  Well, up front, of course. I mean, it was freezing cold . . . okay, it wasn’t freezing cold. It was a beautiful fall day, warm and clear, but I sure needed to be up front with the executives. Besides, Slim had loaded his horse into the trailer and hooked it up to the pickup, so there was no view out the back.

  Yes, up front.

  Slim opened the door and we dogs sprang up into the cab. Actually, I sprang up into the cab, while Drover hopped and scrambled and clawed his way inside. He has short legs, you know, and isn’t much of a leaper. But he made it at last, and both of us were sitting proudly on the seat when Slim climbed in and slammed the door. He started the motor and we were off to new and exciting adventures.

  We headed east down the county road.

  As we bumped along the road, Drover turned to me. “I wonder where we’re going.”

  “We’re going to check the heifers, as I recall. Yes, I’m sure that’s what our orders said.”

  “I’ll be derned.” We rode along in silence, then, “But I thought the heifers were in the Dutcher West pasture.”

  “That’s correct, Drover. The heifers were and are in the Dutcher West pasture. What’s your point?”

  “Well, we just passed the road into the Dutcher West, so I was wondering . . .”

  “Shhhh!” I silenced him with an upraised paw and looked out at the countryside. “Hmmm, something strange is going on here, Drover. We’ve just passed the road into the Dutcher West pasture.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I—”

  “Don’t interrupt. If we didn’t turn on the Dutcher West road, it means we’re not going to that pasture.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I—”

  “Will you hush and let me finish? The evidence is beginning to suggest that we’re going somewhere else, Drover, but where?”

  “Gosh, I never thought of that.”

  “You need to pay more attention to business. That’s one of your problems.”

  “You don’t reckon we’re going to look for Plato, do you?”

  I gave him a steely glare. “Look for Plato? You think Slim would waste his time looking for a wandering bird dog?”

  “Well, I wandered.”

  “You wondered, Drover. You didn’t wander.”

  “Well, I did one time. I wandered out into the pasture, and then I wondered how I would get back home. So I guess you could say that I’ve done both.”

  “You’ve done both, but that’s not the point. The point is that wonder and wander are homonyms.”

  “I ate some hominy once, and you know what? It tastes just like corn.”

  “That’s what it’s made of. Hominy is corn.”

  “Then how come they call it hominy?”

  “Because . . . because it comes in a can, Drover. Everybody knows that hominy means ‘corn in a can.’”

  “I’ll be derned. What about corn on a cob?”

  “Corn on a cob is not in a can. If it were, it would be called ‘hominy on a cob in a can.’”

  “Yeah, but what about tuna fish? It comes in a can.”

  “Exactly my point, and that’s all the time we have for questions.”

  I turned away from the little lunatic and tried to clear the vapors from my mind. Was this a calculated attempt to drive me insane, or was it merely something that happened whenever he opened his mouth?

  I wandered about that, but just then the pickup slowed and Slim made a left turn into . . . hmmm, we had just turned onto a trail that led into Billy’s west pasture.

  Chapter Eight: A Rescue Mission

  This was odd, very odd.

  I turned my eyes on Slim and studied his face for some hint of what the heck we were doing in another man’s pasture. Right away, I began amassing clues.

  Clue #1: He had a toothpick parked on the right side of his mouth. (Usually he parked his toothpicks on the left side of this mouth, so this might have meant something profoundical. Or maybe not).

  Clue #2: He squinted his eyes and looked off in the distance.

  Clue #3: He slowed the pickup to a crawl.

  Clue #4: He rubbed his chin and said, “Now, if I was a bird dog, where would I go?”

  HUH?

  The pickup was moving again. I turned to Drover and lowered my voice. “Drover, I don’t want to alarm you, but we’ve just gotten word that our orders have changed. It appears that we’re now on a mission to find Plato.”

  “I’ll be derned. I thought we decided it was too dangerous, ’cause of all the wild hogs and stuff. Oh, and we don’t like Plato.”

  “You and I reached that decision, Drover, but they’ve gone over our heads on this one and we may have no choice.”

  Kack-kack-kack.

  “You’re chewing your paw again, Drover. Did you see a Deadly Moonbeam?”

  “No, I’m scared and I just . . . ”

  Kack-kack-kack.

  “Drover, you’re being weird.”

  “Yeah, but it helps.”

  “No kidding? Hmmm. To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a little . . .”

  Kack-kack-kack. Kack-kack-kack.

  Suddenly and all at once, Slim slammed on the brakes, throwing us out of our seats and into the dashboard. We landed in a heap on the floor. What was going on? Had Slim seen something?

  I scrambled back onto the seat and met his . . . yipes, angry glare.

  “Quit chewing your paws in my pickup. If you’ve got fleas, chew ’em on your own time.”

  Well, sure, but the problem went much deeper than . . .

  “I can’t stand to hear y’all hacking on your paws. Don’t you have anything else to eat?”

  Once again, he had missed the whole point of the, uh, exercise. I went to Slow Taps in the tail section and tried to explain. See, it was just a simple case of nerves. Jitters. Pre-combat jitters, and then we had the whole problem of the Deadly Moon . . .

  He wasn’t interested in hearing the truth, and that was fine with me because I wasn’t sure I could explain it anyway, so I turned to Drover.

  “Well, your weird habits have gotten us in trouble again. How many times have I told you not to chew your paws in public?”

  “I thought you said . . .”

  “It’s noisy, uncouth, and disgusting. How would you like it if Slim chewed his paws all the time?”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t have paws.”

  “That’s my whole point, Drover. Slim doesn’t have paws, so how would you like it if he chewed something he doesn’t have?”

  “Well, I guess . . .”

  “Don’t argue with me. Just say you’re sorry and let’s get on with our lives.”

  “You’re sorry.”

  “Thanks. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “No, I feel better already . . . but
I still want to chew my paw.”

  I looked deeply into the vast emptiness of his eyes, and was about to give him a serious tongue-lashing, when all at once . . . holy smokes, my head was being drawn and pulled down toward my . . . well, toward my left front paw, almost as though some mysterious force had seized it.

  I shot a glance at Slim. He wasn’t watching.

  Kack-kack-kack.

  His eyes came at me like balls of fire. “Quit chewing your dadgum paws and get out of my dad­gum pickup!”

  He stopped the pickup. Well, gee whiz, he didn’t need to . . . you know what he did? He threw us out the door. Both of us! I was shocked. I mean, if he didn’t want us chewing our paws, all he had to do was . . .

  Oh well, I didn’t care. It had seemed stuffy in his pickup anyway, and did I mention that the cab of his pickup stunk? Stank. Stinked. Stunked. It smelled bad, and I was happy to get out into the fresh air.

  After this shocking display of childish behavior, Slim unloaded his horse and tightened the cinch. Then he called us over. I trotted over to him. He buckled on his chaps and hitched up his jeans.

  “Okay, dogs, we’re here to look for Billy’s bird dog. Find Plato, you hear? Y’all check out the thickets and brush in the bottom of the draw and I’ll ride along on the east side. Take care of your business and don’t run off.”

  So it was true. We had been brought here to look for the Birdly Wonder. What a waste. I couldn’t believe we were doing this. And something else I couldn’t believe was that Beulah continued to have some odd affection for the dummy. I mean, no cowdog in history had ever lost his way home, and no bird dog in history had ever composed poems as good . . .

  Oh well. My job paid the same, whether we were doing meaningful work or searching for lost bird dogs.

  I shoved these thoughts to the back of my mind, put my nose to the ground, and switched all circuits over to Smelloradar. Right away I began picking up the smells of . . . well, not much, actually. Cows, skunk­brush, wild plum leaves, aromantic sage­brush, and . . . ACHOO! . . . ragweed, but not even a whiff of anything resembling a bird dog scent.

  Oh, and no coyote scent either, which was sure fine with me. I mean, with Slim riding nearby, I didn’t have to worry too much about being jumped by coyotes, but still, a guy doesn’t want to . . .

  Huh? Singing?

  I went to Full Air Brakes and lifted my ears and began scanning the horizon for sounds. Okay, it appeared to be coming from Slim, who was riding through some sagebrush hills on the other side of the draw. He was singing, if you can believe that, something like this.

  Hunting for Bird Dogs

  Oh the cowboy’s life is wild and free,

  Adventure is always at hand.

  If we ain’t hauling hay or milking a cow,

  We’re digging postholes in the sand.

  There’s welding to do and garbage to haul

  And painting a barn in the sun.

  But for puredee excitement, it’s hard to compete

  With huntin’ for bird dogs on November one.

  I’ve got me a couple of pardners for this,

  They’re loyal and try to be strong.

  The trouble is that, when the brains were passed out,

  Old Hankie and Drover were gone.

  They’re dumb but they like me, we’re pretty good pals,

  We have ourselves barrels of fun.

  Now quail season’s opened and what shall we do?

  We’re huntin’ for bird dogs on November one.

  When he’d finished his . . . whatever it was, song, I suppose . . . when he’d finished singing his pitiful little song, he looked at us and grinned. “Now, ain’t that about the finest song y’all dogs have ever heard?”

  I stared at him in disbelief. Was he trying to be funny? That was about the dumbest song I’d ever heard, certainly the dumbest I’d heard since his last dumb song. He seemed to think he was a great composer or something, and also a great singer. Ha. He didn’t know beans about either one, but that didn’t keep him from coming up with corny songs.

  He had his nerve, suggesting that we dogs were “gone” the day the “brains were passed out.” I had never been so insulted. Oh, and if he was so smart, how come we were out hunting for the neighbor’s skinny stick-tailed bird dog instead of doing something constructive? If they’d asked my opinion . . .

  Oh well. I can’t allow myself to get worked up over all the injustice in the world. I’ll say no more about it.

  Yes I will. Some people seem to think that we dogs have an easy life—chew bones, sleep all day, bark at a few cars. Well, nothing could be further from the truth. Don’t forget that we’re forced to listen to our masters sing songs that are insulting and corny.

  Wait a minute, hold everything. Corny. Corn. Hominy. Was this some kind of hidden clue that might propel the case in an entirely new direction? I shot a glance at Drover, to see if he had picked it up. No, of course he hadn’t, for the simple reason that he wasn’t in the privy of my thought processes and therefore . . .

  And therefore, just skip it.

  Where were we? Oh yes, on a pointless mission to find a bird dog I didn’t want to find, to save an old enemy I didn’t want to save, and to waste valu­able time I didn’t want to waste. But there we were, and we had been ordered to . . .

  All at once I was picking up new signals on Smelloradar. I lowered my sensing devicers and punched in the commands for Deep Sniff.

  Sniff, sniff.

  Yes, this was something new and it promised to blow the case wide open. And you know what? It did.

  Chapter Nine: Drover Is Cut in Half

  Even though I had gotten a clear reading on Smelloradar, I decided to get a second opinion. “Drover, come here at once and tell me what this is.”

  He had been skipping along, looking at the clouds. He skipped over to where I was waiting. “Oh, hi. What did you say?”

  I pointed to the spot where I had caught the scent. “I said, tell me what this is.”

  He squinted down at the ground. “Well, it looks like . . . dirt.”

  “Smell it, Drover, and hurry. This could be very important.”

  He sniffed it. “Well, it smells like . . . dirt. It looks like dirt and it smells like dirt, so I guess it’s dirt.”

  The air hissed out of my lungs. “Please try to be serious. There’s an odd scent down there, and I want you to tell me what it might be.”

  He sniffed it again. “Well, let’s see here. Cow manure?”

  “No.”

  “Hominy?”

  “Drover!”

  He sniffed it again. This time, his eyes sprang open. “Oh my gosh, there it is. Do you reckon it’s what I think it is?”

  “That depends. What do you think it is?”

  “Well . . . what do you think it is?”

  “I thought it might be a jackrabbit.”

  He sniffed the spot again. “Yep, me too. It’s a jackrabbit, sure ’nuff.”

  “Well, there we are. Two independent snifferations show positive for jackrabbit.”

  He beamed his patented silly grin. “Oh good, I’m so glad. I was afraid it might be a barrel hog.”

  “Feral hog, Drover, and no, this is nothing close to a hog scent. Hogs smell hoggy, you know.”

  “Yeah, it did smell kind of hoggy.”

  “No, I say it didn’t smell hoggy.”

  He sniffed the spot again. This time, his grin faded. “Yeah, but it does. I can smell it now, and it’s hoggy.”

  This report sent a chill down my backbone. “Did you say hoggy or doggy? The scents are very similar, you see, and if it’s a doggy smell, it might be . . . well, Plato hiding in that bush, and we’d rather find Plato than a wild hog, right? Smell it again.” He did. “I’ll bet it’s a doggy scent, what do you say?”

  When his
head came up, I could see fear in his eyes. “Who’s going into the bush to check it out?”

  “Well, I . . . Drover, I had thought this might be a great opportunity for you to, well, take some responsibility and prove your stuff. What do you say?”

  “Forget that.”

  “What?”

  “I said . . . gosh, I’d love to, but all at once this old leg . . .”

  I heaved a sigh. “Never mind, forget it, sorry I mentioned it. I’ll go in myself. You’ll be sorry, of course, and don’t blame me when—” All at once a wild musky smell entered my nostrils. My ears jumped and a strip of hair along my backbone stood straight up. “On second thought, Drover, maybe we should, uh, bark the alarm and let Slim do the honors. We mustn’t hog all the glory, so to speak.”

  And with that, we backed up several steps . . . quit a few steps, actually, and began lobbing Mortar Barks into the thicket. Have we discussed Mortar Barks? It’s one of the many techniques we have for blasting an enemy, and it’s one of the most difficult. You have to aim high, don’t you see, so that your bark arches high in the air and then falls right into the middle of the target. When it’s done right, the sonic waves from the ferocious barking will come crashing down on the target and actually disable the enemy, knocking him senseless to the ground.

  No kidding.

  So there we were, the elite troops of the Security Division, firing off round after round of Mortar Barks and dropping them right into the middle of the plum thicket. Slim heard the roar of the barrage and came riding over to us.

  “What’s the deal? Y’all find something in that thicket?” He stood up in the stirrups and squinted toward the brush. “Well, I don’t see anything. Come on, Snips, let’s check it out.”

  He nudged Snips with his spurs, but Snips didn’t move. He lowered his head, snorted, and backed up a step. Slim spurred him again, but the cowardly horse refused to go forward.

  (See? What did I tell you? These horses prance around and talk all kinds of trash, but when it comes to action, they just can’t cut the ketchup.)

  (The mustard. They can’t cut the mustard.)