He hung his head and sniffled. “I guess so, but sometimes it gets me down.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you really?”
“No. Hurry up.” I began pacing again. “Tell me exactly what Murphy said. I want his exact precise words, and omit all references to jellyfish and your tail.”
“Well, okay, let me think here.” He squeezed one eye shut and wadded up the left side of his mouth. It appeared that he was probing the empty depths of his mind, which was encouraging. “Here we go. His exact words were: ‘Gobble gobble gobble-gobble gobble gobble-gobble-gobble.’”
“That’s what he said? Are you sure about that?”
“Yep, I heard it with my own ears. What does it mean?”
“It means . . .” I cut my eyes from side to side. “It means, Drover, that we will now sing ‘The Turkey Song.’”
“‘The Turkey Song’? I never heard of it.”
“Then listen and take notes.”
And with that, before Drover’s very ears, I sang this song.
The Turkey Song
There are turkeys lurking in the murky shadows of the ranch.
We have reason to suppose that they are waiting for a chance
To invade the place and take control. Their leader’s in disguise.
He’s the famous secret agent, name of Murphy Turkey Spy!
He’s a dangerous fellow, an ace of illusion,
Who seems to delight in creating confusion.
But Drover and I are working the case.
This Turkey Rebellion won’t get to first base.
But it’s really confusing and we can’t decide
If this Murphy’s a human in turkey disguise,
Or an agent who’s pulling the ultimate sham:
A turkey disguised just to be who he am.
There are turkeys lurking in the murky shadows just outside.
We can hear their “gobble, gobble,” as they try to scheme and hide.
They might think that they have tricked us with their foolish follyrot
But we’ve solved this case: we know they’re either turkeys . . . or they’re not.
When I had finished the song (pretty awesome song, huh?) . . . when I had so-forthed the so forth, I noticed that Drover was looking at me with a goofy expression.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Well . . . I guess I’m confused. You think maybe Murphy’s not really a spy and . . . maybe I didn’t really see him?”
I heaved a sigh. “No, no, no. That’s what they want us to think, Drover. As I’ve told you many times before, never fall for the obvious. In this business, the more absurd things appear to be, the closer they are to Reality as It Really Is.”
“Well, this is pretty absurd.”
“Exactly my point. Reason and common sense tell us that there is no Murphy, no ring of turkey spies, no dark conspiracy to overthrow the ranch, but that should be a warning.”
“You mean—”
“Yes, Drover. Murphy is here on the ranch. Now that he knows we’re after him, it’ll be twice as hard to lure him into a trap. This is going to be a very difficult case.”
Drover’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Gosh, what’ll we do?”
I plundered that for a moment. Pondered, I should say. “We’ll carry on as though nothing has happened, as though we don’t suspect a thing. If we’re lucky, he’ll get careless and expose himself through a mistake.”
Drover gave his head a shake. “Well . . . he sure looked like a turkey.”
“He’s clever, no question about it, but don’t forget this: the turkier they look, the spyer they are. You can put that into your pipe and blow bubbles with it.” I noticed that his eyes had crossed. “Please don’t cross your eyes in the middle of my lecture.”
“I think I’m confused. Can I go back to bed?”
“I’m afraid not, son. Until we break this case and expose Murphy the Spy, neither of us will be getting much sleep.”
“Well, can I scratch my ear?”
I gave that some thought. “Okay, go ahead, if it’ll make you feel better. Oh, and Drover, don’t feel too bad about being confused. This guy’s a real pro. Even I might have been thrown off the track of the train.”
At that very moment, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle. An unauthorized vehicle was approaching our ranch headquarters compound. Even though I was in the middle of the Murphy Case, I had to tear myself away and find out who had entered our territory without permission.
“Come on, Drover, we’ve got a trespasser on the ranch! It’s time to launch all dogs!”
He was still scratching his ear. “Yeah, but what about this itch?”
“Bring it along. We might have to use it for evidence later on.”
And with that, we launched ourselves into the morning breeze and went streaking up the hill to find out just what the heck was going on. Little did we suspect . . . well, you’ll see.
Chapter Three: We Capture the Mailman
Do I dare let you in on the procedures we followed on this assignment? I’ve already mentioned that we “launched all dogs,” but there was quite a bit more to it than that. And some of it was pretty technical and complicated.
What do you think? Let’s give it a try.
Okay, the first report of the tresspassing vehicle came in at 0831. At 0832 I put the ranch under Red Alert and gave the order to launch all dogs. At precisely 0833 Drover and I left the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex, taxied into the wind, and went to Full Throttle on all engines. It was a successful launch—smoke, flames, a deafening roar, the whole nine yards—and by 0834 we were streaking northward on a course of oh-five-zirro-zirro.
(Just a brief note here. Ordinary dogs who do ordinary things would express that compass heading as “oh-five-zero-zero.” But those of us who’ve spent years in this line of work have found that saying “zirro-zirro” instead of “zero-zero” just—well, it sounds better, more official. Don’t you agree? Of course you do).
Where were we? Oh yes, we had just launched ourselves into the so forth. At precisely 0837 we reached the southeast corner of the yard fence, and there we executed a smooth ninety-degree turn to the leeward larbor—or “to the left” for those not familiar with all our terminal technology.
Our technical terminology, let us say. I know this is pretty complicated, but just hang on and bear with me.
Oh, and let me point out that making our ninety-degree turn wasn’t as easy as you might think. Do you know why? Because at the moment we executed the turn, the outside temperature on the ranch stood at only forty-five degrees. As you can see, this left us forty-five degrees short of the desired turning ratio and . . .
Let’s skip the math and mush on.
We executed a perfect ninety-degree turn, and never mind all the complex calculations we had to do to pull it off, and went streaking northward up the gravel road in front of the house. At precisely 0839 I broke radio silence.
“Drover, we will now shift into our code names. Baloney Ring, this is Buttermilk Sky. Clean up the formation. You’re lagging behind, over.”
“Well, I’m running as fast as I can.”
“That’s a rodge, Ring.”
“What’s a rodge ring?”
“A rodge. It’s short for roger, and I’ve shortened your code name from Baloney Ring to Ring. When we’re airborne, we have to do these things, over.”
“I’ll be derned. And what’s your name again?”
“Buttermilk Sky, but you can just call me Sky. It’ll save us a little time.”
“Boy, I sure like buttermilk.”
“Rodge, Ring. Stay alert for Charlie.”
“Charlie or Murphy?”
“Roger.”
“Three spies! Oh my gosh!”
>
I felt my temper rising. “Drover, if this too complicated, just skip it. Stay off the radio and pay attention to—holy smokes, Drover, do you see what I see?”
“I thought I was Ringworm.”
“Roger, Ringworm! Straight in front of us. Do you see it now?”
There was a moment of silence. Then Drover said, “Oh. I’ll be derned. It’s the mail truck.”
“Mail truck! Are you crazy? That’s no mail truck, son. Stay in formation. We’re going in for a closer—”
Huh?
Okay, what we had here was . . . tell you what, we’re going to call off the Red Alert and go back to Condition Normal. It seems that we had just intercepted the . . . uh . . . mail truck, so to speak, but let me hasten to point out that the mailman was running two whole hours ahead of his normal schedule. He wasn’t supposed to come by our ranch until 10:30, and how’s a dog supposed to . . .
He hadn’t bothered to notify ME of this, and it’s very hard to run a ranch when they don’t . . .
But the important thing is that our systems had picked up the sounds of his vehicle and we had conducted a successful test of the Scramble All Dogs Procedure. Pretty amazing, huh? You bet. I mean, we don’t expect trouble from postal employees, but it never hurts to check these things out. With a dangerous spy running loose on the ranch, a dog can never be sure . . .
But wait, hold everything. Maybe there was more to this.
We’ve mentioned that the mailman had changed his routine, right? But what you didn’t notice was that he didn’t stop at the mailbox on the county road! Okay, maybe you weren’t there and couldn’t have picked up this important clue, but I noticed it right away, and all at once it seemed pretty derned suspicious.
See, he didn’t stop at the mailbox, open the little door, or slide the mail into the box. He always did that, but this time—holy smokes, he was driving toward the house! What was the deal? Right away, I got on the radio.
“Onion Ring, this is Milktoast. This guy’s up to something. We will now go into Escort Formation and follow him down to the house. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“How do you peel your eyes?”
“Drover, please try to be serious. If you don’t know how to peel your eyes, just keep them open.”
“Oh, okay. I can handle that.”
“Let’s move out!”
And with that, we reversed our thruster engines and fell into formation beside the mail truck as it drove toward the house. Drover took the west side and I took the east. On my side, I trotted right up to the door and gave the mailman a couple of barks, just to let him know that we dogs were on the job and watching his every move.
He glared back at me through the window glass, curled his lip, and muttered words I couldn’t hear. Maybe he didn’t enjoy being barked and escorted through our ranch, but that was too bad. I mean, if these people think they can just drive through the ranch any time they feel like it, they’re badly mistaken.
He could mutter and mumble all he wanted, I didn’t care. Once he left the county road and pulled onto our private road to the house, he became My Problem, and . . .
Have we discussed this particular postal employee? Maybe so, but it’s been a while. We didn’t know his name, but that didn’t matter. He was a big guy with dark brooding eyes, a hateful disposition, and a bulge in his left cheek.
Right cheek? No, it was the left side. His cheek bulged out because—this will shock you—because he chewed tobacco on the job. Yes sir, he chewed nasty tobacco.
And he rolled down his window and yelled, “Get out of the road, moron!”
Ha! Did he think he could scare me off with threats and hateful words? You know me. When they start yelling and hurling insults, it just makes me more determined than ever to give ’em the kind of barking they so richly deserve. So instead of running away with my leg between my tails, I gave him another barking, this one even louder and more ferocious.
Furthermore, I got on the radio and ordered Drover to do the same on the other side. Heh heh. That would teach this smartypants mailman to . . .
You won’t believe what he did—the mailman, that is. I was shocked, although maybe I shouldn’t have been. I mean, he’d done this before and . . .
He spit tobacco juice at me! And I’m sorry to report that he was, well, a pretty good shot and scored a . . . I never did like that guy or trust him, and he deserved every bark I’d given him over the years.
“Be careful, Drover! He’s taking countermeasures. If you see anything brown coming your way, you’d better duck!”
“Where’s a duck?”
“No, I said . . . never mind, Drover. If you see anything brown coming your way . . .”
SPLAT!
Okay, that did it! This meant WAR! By George, if he wanted to get serious about this deal, I was prepared to . . . well, back off and put a little distance between us. I mean, I didn’t see any sense in . . . but the important thing is that we kept him in sight and followed him all the way down to the house.
Yes sir, we followed him every step of the way, only now we were on guard against his childish . . . he stopped in front of the house. I stopped and motioned for Drover to do the same. He saw my hand signal and . . . oh brother, he waved back and yelled, “Oh, hi there!”
Sometimes I think . . . never mind.
The postman stopped in front of the house, stepped out of the truck, and reached into the backseat of his vehicle. I saw his hind end sticking out and wondered what would happen if I rushed forward and . . . but, no, that would be too risky, so I hunkered down and observed him with a full array of instruments: VizRad (Visual Radar—eyes), Earatory Scanners (ears), and Sniffatory Analyzers (nose), the whole nine yards of high-tech equipment at the disposable of the Security Division.
We had him on our screen, fellers, and whatever he did now would be recorded for all time.
Blinking my eyes against the stinging mist of the Toxic Tobacco Juice he had spat upon my head, I watched as he carried a large box up to the front door and knocked. A moment later the door opened and Little Alfred stepped out on the porch. The mailman said a few words to the boy, left him with the box, and returned to his vehicle—which he had left running.
That seems pretty suspicious, don’t you think? I mean, why would a postal employee leave his vehicle running?
Maybe he was in a hurry. No clues there.
He climbed back into the vehicle, the mailman did, and slammed his door. At that point, I rushed out of my hiding place in the weeds and delivered a withering barrage of . . .
SPLAT! Tobacco juice.
He drove away, leaving me wounded and bleeding.
Chapter Four: A Pirate Comes Out of the House
Okay, maybe I wasn’t exactly wounded and bleeding, but my pride had suffered a terrible blow.
Drover came rushing up. When he saw the brown stain upon my face and head, he—you won’t believe this—he started laughing.
I turned to the dunce and melted him with a flaming glare. “Drover, it really hurts to see you making a mockery of my misfortunes. Just for that, I’m going to put three Irreverence Marks into your record.”
“Oh drat.”
“And another one for using naughty language on the job.”
“Oh fizzlebloomers.”
“There’s another one! Go ahead, son, get all the poison out of your system.”
“Oh . . . bonkeywhoofer.”
“That’s cute, Drover, and that brings you up to a grand total of six marks against your record. You want any more?”
He grinned. “No, I’m out of naughty words.”
“Good. Great. Maybe you’ve cleansed your internal organs of all their grime and filth.”
“Yeah, but you’ve still got tobacco juice on your face.”
I glared at him. “Okay, smart guy, just for that, we’l
l make it seven marks! That last one is for speaking an Unauthorized Truth.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
I did Dives in the Grass and wiped the gunk off my face and head. “And let that be a lesson to you. When I want to know the truth about my appearance, I’ll let you know.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Go to your room. Immediately!”
“Yeah, but . . . that spy’s down there with the turkeys, and I’m scared of spies.”
I gave that some thought. “Hmmm. Good point. Okay, maybe sending you to your room is too harsh, but, Drover, we must do something about your . . .”
“I wonder what’s in the box.”
“Quiet. I’m not finished. We must do something to improve your—what did you just say?”
“I wonder what’s in the box.”
I stared into the deep emptiness of his eyes. “It’s not a box. It’s a spy, a very dangerous spy.”
“Yeah, but . . . the mailman delivered a box.”
“Oh, that. Are you saying there’s a spy in the box? Hurry up, Drover, what’s your point?”
“I just wondered . . .” All at once, he burst out crying. “I don’t know what I’m saying! You’ve got me so confused, I don’t know if I’m coming or going!”
I heaved a sigh and patted the little mutt on the shoulder. “Try to control yourself, son. I think I can help.”
He stopped crying and stared at me with tear-shimmering eyes. “Really? No fooling?”
“Yes. Here’s the answer you’ve been seeking all these years, and I hope you’ll pay close attention.” I leaned down and whispered, “The reason you can’t tell if you’re coming or going is that you’re going insane, and I’ve seen it coming for a long time.”
He gave me a silly grin. “Oh. Is that all? Gosh, thanks. I feel better already.”
I held him in my gaze for a long minute, as he grinned and hopped around in circles. He seemed as happy as a little bird in a birdbath. Sometimes I wonder . . . oh well.
“That’s enough, Drover. We need to find out what’s in that mysterious box.”
The Case of the Shipwrecked Tree Page 2