It's a Dog's Life

by John R. Erickson

  “And you told them to stay out of the garbage and to leave the cats alone but they didn’t.”

  “No, they didn’t, Maggie.”

  “And so they’ve come home stinking and covered with fleas, which is just what they deserve.”

  “Well, Mag, I didn’t want to . . . I mean, they’re awful sweet kids . . .”

  “But kids will be kids.”

  “Right, they sure will, but I hope you’re not . . .”

  “Mad at you? Why Henry, how could I be mad at you?”

  “I see what you mean, Mag. You’re right. How could you be mad at me?”

  Heh, heh, I’d dodged another bullet. I kind of hated for the kids to catch all the blame, but what the heck, they were young, they would survive.

  Well, Mag asked if I was hungry yet and I said yes, as a matter of fact I was. She said that was great because she had a special meal for me. “And now that the children are out of the way, we can have a quiet meal and talk about old times.”

  As you can imagine, I was delighted to see Maggie in such good spirits. She brought me some supper. Said it was a new kind of dog food and she’d been saving it for a special occasion.

  It sure looked odd to me—well, I shouldn’t say “odd” because that sounds too critical, and I’d be the last guy on this earth to criticize his sister’s grub. It was different.

  Where your ordinary run of dog food is brown and shaped in kernels or biscuits, this stuff was pure white and shaped in a rectangle—more of a bar than a biscuit, don’t you see. Had a different smell too. Where your Co-op dog food will have the smell of stale grease, this new brand had kind of a perfumey smell.

  Mag brought a real pretty red dog bowl and set it in front of me, and then she dropped the bar of dog food into the bowl. It hit with a clunk.

  “Hey, that looks great, Sis.”

  “I think you’ll like it, Henry.”

  “Sis, nobody rustles grub like you. I mean, food just seems to taste better at your place. Uh, what do you call this recipe?”

  “There’s the name right there.” She pointed to the bar, and sure enough it had a name on it.

  “Huh, I-v-o-r-y. Ivory, is that it?”

  “Uh-huh. Ivory Dog Bars. The children just adore them.”

  “Well by George, if my nieces and nephews say they’re good, they’re bound to be good. How do you eat this thing? I mean, when a guy’s in town, he wants to do things proper.”

  “Yes, one does. Oh, just bite off a piece and,” she started giggling, “chew it up.”

  “Sis, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you laughing again. I mean, that headache business really had me worried. It makes the whole trip worthwhile, just seeing you laugh.”

  “Thank you, Henry, it’s nice of you to,” she started laughing again, “say so.”

  “Yeah, it’s great. You know, it kind of reminds me of the time me and you were down by the septic tank—chasing a butterfly, as I recall. You remember that?”

  “I sure do Henry. The butterfly landed on a weed out in that nasty green water.”

  “And you leaned out over the water . . .”

  “Yes, yes, and you pushed me in!” she laughed.

  I laughed. “Sure as heck did. Boy, did you hate that! And do you remember how we laughed about it?”

  “Uh, go on with your supper, Henry. Yes, I sure do.”

  “Yeah, we just . . .” I took a big bite out of the dog bar and started chewing it up. Say, that stuff had a strange taste. Real strange, nothing at all like Co-op.

  Sis was watching me. “How do you like it?”

  “Huh? Oh, the dog bar? Hey, it’s super, Mag, it’s really . . .” I swallered the first bite. “. . . out of this world.”

  That pleased her. “I’m so glad you like it. I would have been crushed if you hadn’t.”

  “Right, no it’s . . . it’s a little different, Mag, but you know me, I’m always anxious to try some­thing . . . different.”

  “How sweet! Well, take another bite and go on with your story.”

  I bit off another hunk. “Well, there you were in the sewer, up to your brisket, and . . .” I could hardly believe my eyes. A big bubble came out of my mouth. It grew and grew, and then it popped.

  Mag was staring at me. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “That great big bubble that came out of my mouth?”

  She laughed. “Oh Henry, you’re such a tease! Just for a moment I thought you were serious.”

  “Did you really?” Just for a moment, I’d thought I was serious too. Matter of fact, I could have sworn I saw a big bubble.

  “How’s the Ivory Dog Bar?”

  “Oh Sis, this stuff is just . . . I swallered the bite I had in my mouth. “This stuff is really . . .” I burped. I mean, it just snuck out, I couldn’t stop it.

  “Hen-reeeeee!”

  “Excuse me, Maggie, that’s terrible manners.”

  “It really is. Oh well, I suppose that’s just your way of showing how much you enjoy the meal.”

  “It is, it sure is, and thanks for being so . . .” There was another bubble coming out of my mouth. It popped. “Did you see that?”

  She leaned over and patted me on the cheek. “You big old teaser, you can’t fool me with that again. Now go on and eat and finish your story.”

  To be truthful about it, I didn’t want to go on and eat. I mean, I could have quit right there and been satisfied. But she was sitting in front of me and I sure as heck didn’t want her to think . . . I took another bite.

  “Anyway, there you were out there in the water and we got to laughing . . .”

  “Yes, I remember,” she said. “But you know, it’s odd that I don’t remember it the same way you do. I have a very clear recollection of you laughing, while I stood in the water and cried. Now isn’t that . . . Henry? What is that on your mouth?”

  “Huh?” I wiped a paw across my mouth and looked at it. “Looks kind of like foam, don’t it? By George, I believe it is foam.”

  “Foam!” Her eyes widened. “Henry, you’re foaming at the mouth! You don’t like my supper!”

  “Now Mag . . .”

  “You weren’t telling the truth, you hate my cooking, you always have, oh I’m a complete failure!”

  “Hey listen, Mag, that foam don’t mean a thing, shucks I foam at the mouth all the time.”

  “Lies, lies! You hate my cooking!”

  “No, Mag, I love it, honest.”

  She looked at me through tear-filled eyes. “Then why haven’t you finished the Ivory Dog Bar?”

  “Because . . . well . . . here it goes, down the old hatch.” I took the rest of the bar in my mouth, chewed it up, and swallered the heck out of it. “There you see, Sis, and you thought I didn’t like . . .”

  All at once I felt sick, and I mean SICK. My mouth foamed and dripped and drooled, and I could have sworn that I saw some more of them bubbles.

  “What were you saying?”

  My head started to swim. I looked at Mag and thought I might toss my cookies right there. “I was . . . saying . . . how delicious . . . what do you reckon they put . . . in them dog bars, ’cause boy, they sure are good.”

  “Oh Henry, do you really mean that? You really liked it? Oh, I’m so thrilled! I’ll serve it for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “S’wunnerful, Mag, just wunnerful, mercy, I got to go check on . . . excuse me a minute.”

  I didn’t want to get sick in front of my sister, so I made a dash for the alley, by way of the tunnel we had dug under the fence.

  I made it just in time. Out in the alley I had to pitch my cookies. What came up was bubbles, hundreds of ’em, thousands of ’em, green ’uns, red ’uns, pink ’uns, more bubbles than I’d ever seen in my whole life.<
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  I was sitting there, contemplating all those bubbles, when I heard a pickup coming down the alley. It went past, screeched to a stop, and backed up. It was a white pickup with a wire cage in back.

  The man inside stared at me, then got on his two-way radio. “Mobile 13 to city hall. Larry, this is Jimmy Joe. I’ve got a code three, man, a rabid dog in the alley behind the Gregg’s house. He’s foaming at the mouth, Larry, send me some help!”

  I glanced around. I hadn’t seen any rabid dog. In fact, it appeared to me that I was the only dog in the . . .

  HUH?

  That guy thought I had rabies!

  Chapter Ten: On Death Row

  That guy was the dogcatcher, see, and when he got out of his pickup and started creeping toward me with a butterfly net, I began to suspect that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Hold still, doggie,” he said. “Just two more steps and I’ll take you for a little ride.”

  Who did he think he was talking to? I mean, how dumb would you have to be to fall for that “hold still doggie” business? I showed him a few fangs and gave him a growl, and fellers, he dropped that butterfly net and flew back into the pickup.

  “Mobile three to city hall! Larry, he attacked me, almost got my leg, for gosh sakes send some police and the ambulance, this mutt has hydro­phobia, I ain’t kidding!”

  It occurred to me that I had better make a run for the high and lonesome. I could have gone back into the yard, but I didn’t want to cause trouble for Maggie, not after she’d been so nice and fixed me the special supper.

  I headed south down the alley. I was still feeling a little weak, don’t you see, and my back end didn’t follow my front end. By this time the dogcatcher was perched on the cab of his pickup, talking on the radio.

  “Mobile three to city hall. Suspect is proceeding south and holy cow, Larry, he’s got the blind staggers, better tell ’em to seal off the whole south end of town, Larry, I mean he’s out of his head and extremely dangerous!”

  I could hear the sirens now, three or four of ’em moving down Main Street. I started running. The derned bubbles were still coming out of my mouth.

  What the heck had brought on all the bubbles? I’d had indigestion before, ate some aged mutton with a bunch of coyotes one time and it sure made me sick, but I’d never made bubbles or foamed at the mouth.

  I looked up ahead and saw a police car in the alley, so I veered off to the left and started across a vacant lot but there was a fire truck coming straight at me. I wheeled around and ran back to the alley, figgered I’d leap over a fence and vanish in somebody’s backyard, but my leaper was out of commission. Too weak in the knees.

  I was trapped against the fence, surrounded by police with guns and firemen with axes and the dogcatcher with his net. They were closing in on me.

  I heard a sound on the fence above me. I looked around and saw that same fat yellow cat and her three kittens. “You see, children? The chickens have come home to roost. Crime never pays if you’re dumb enough to get caught. Let this be a lesson to you.”

  On a better day I might have given them cats a few more lessons, but with the Depart­ment of Defense closing in on me, I just didn’t have time.

  I looked for a place to run but they had me cornered. One of the policemen had his shotgun pointed in my direction and one of the things you learn in security work is that arguing with a shotgun will mess up your coat and produce lead poisoning.

  Instead of making a run for it, I sat down. The dogcatcher came creeping up with his net in the air, and if I’d made the slightest growl, I bet he would have jumped back into last week. But I didn’t. He dropped the net around me and I was caught.

  “Easy now, stand back, boys, I’m telling you this dog is out of his mind, he tried to tear my leg off back yonder and when I ran for the pickup he attacked one of my tires!”

  Just then the guy in the T-shirt, the one who belonged to that sorry collection of cats, came out the gate and talked to the police. “Yeah, he’s the one that tried to kill my cats. I thought there was something peculiar about that dog. And he’s got rabies, huh? I suspected it all along, sure did.”

  They carried me to the dogcatcher’s wagon and throwed me into the wire cage and locked the door. Then two or three of them stood around, staring at me and talking. The dogcatcher got a long stick and started poking at me with it. What was I supposed to do? I let him poke me a couple of times and then I bit the stick in half.

  “Look at that! Did you see that? We got us a sick dog, boys, and did I tell you about how he tried to attack a child before y’all got here?”

  “The heck he did!”

  “Yes sir, and I’ll tell you this, boys, and it comes from the bottom of my heart: if this town hadn’t had a dogcatcher, half the little children on this end of town would be running around with hydrophobia right this minute!”

  “Kids these days are bad enough without hydrophobia.”

  “That’s right, Burt, and the next time that city council takes up the business of salaries, they better remember who goes out and saves the little children of this town from mad dogs.”

  One of the policemen bent down and looked at me. He made an ugly face, and I made one right back at him. “What do you do with a mad dog, Jimmy Joe?”

  “Oh, we’ll call the vet out to the pound tomorrow and he’ll run a test.”

  “What’s the test?”

  “Cut off his head and send it to the state lab.”

  HUH? Cut . . . say, that didn’t sound good at all. As a matter of fact, it sounded real bad. What the heck did they do if the test came out negative? I had a couple more questions I wanted answers to, but about that time Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher got into the pickup and hauled me off to the city dog pound.

  It was on the south edge of town, on a lonely windblown hill. As we approached the place, I could hear the wind moaning through the chain link fences. Jimmy Joe backed up to a pen with a high fence around it and opened the gates so I could go into the pen.

  He started poking me again with a stick. “Go on, you crazy devil, get out of there! This is the end of the road. No more biting innocent children for you, pal.”

  I don’t know where he came up with that business about biting innocent children. I never bit an innocent child in my life, never even bit one who wasn’t innocent. When you’re Head of Ranch Security, you don’t go around biting kids. Monsters, yes. Coyotes and coons and criminal dogs, yes. But kids, no.

  Seemed to me the dogcatcher needed to have his head sent to the state lab, but nobody was interested in my opinion.

  I went into the cell and laid down in a back corner. The dogcatcher slammed the door and stood there for a minute. “No collar, no dog tags, no name, no identification. We won’t have to feed you long, old pup. You better have a good time tonight because tomorrow . . .”

  He drew a finger across his throat and made a wicked sound. He flashed a big grin, got into his pickup, and drove away.

  There was something about that dogcatcher I didn’t like.

  Well, I lay there for a long time, listening to the wind and thinking about my situation. All at once I got the feeling that I was being watched. I raised my head, cut my eyes to both sides, perked my ears, and tested the wind.

  Then I saw him: a basset hound in the cell next to mine. He had a long body, short, stubby legs, long drooping ears, and the saddest, most mournful face you could imagine.

  “Howdy,” he said in a slow-talking voice. “My name’s Ralph.”

  “I’m Hank the Cowdog, Head of Ranch Se­curity.”

  “Welcome to Death Row.”

  “Thanks. It’s a real pleasure to be here.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “What do you think?”

  He sniffed his nose. “I ’spect not. You scared?”

  “Maybe.”


  “I’d be scared if I was you. You really got hydrophobia like they said?”

  “I don’t know. Everybody thinks I do. Maybe I do.” I told him the whole story, starting with the Ivory Dog Bar I ate at Maggie’s place. Ralph didn’t strike me as being real bright but I didn’t have anything better to do than make conversation with him. It took my mind off my troubles.

  It took me a while to tell the story. Ralph’s eyelids were drooping when I started—I mean, I think that was just his normal condition. His whole face drooped: eyes, ears, jowls, everything. He was just a droopy kind of dog. Well, by the time I finished the story, he was asleep.

  Kind of hacked me off, him falling asleep. I got up and sneaked over to the fence, put my mouth right down by his ear and yelled, “HEY!”

  His whole body rose off the ground an inch or two and he opened his eyes. “Soap,” he said.

  “Well soap to you too! You shouldn’t go around asking questions if you can’t stay awake for the answers. Even a dog on Death Row deserves a little courtesy.”

  He blinked his eyes. “Soap’s the answer.”

  “Yeah, but what’s the question? It doesn’t help to know the answer if you don’t . . . what are you talking about?”

  He pushed himself up and walked over to a water pan near the front of his cell. It was dark by this time and I could hear his claws clicking on the cement floor. He lapped up some water and came clicking back and sat down.

  “Mouth gets dry when I talk too much.” He ran his tongue over his chops and wiped off some excess water. “Seems to me you were the victim of a hoax.”

  “Not likely, friend. I’ve been in security work for a long time. I can smell a hoax half a mile away.”

  “Uh-huh, but it was soap.”

  “You said that before. It didn’t make sense then and it don’t make sense now.”

  “Well, if you’ll shut up a minute, maybe I can explain.”

  I glared at him. “You’re telling me to shut up, is that it?”

  “Uh-huh, that’s what I was driving at.”

  I sat down. “I can handle that. Tell me about soap.”

  “One time they was washing out the dog pens. They don’t do it very often but this time they did. They had some little white bars that had ‘Ivory’ written on ’em.”