It’s not. I know that shocks you, from your heads down to your toes,
And now you have to face the facts that everybody knows (but you).
I’m really very patient, I’m trying to ignore
The thousand pranks you’ve pulled on me that hurt me to the core,
But I’ll be frank, your jokes are stale and you’ve become a bore,
And your ridicule and mockery have made me rather sore.
You have to grow up, boys, you have to mature.
Your humor’s as funny as chicken manure.
I know that you’ll fight it as long as you can.
You have to grow up, boys, it’s part of the plan.
I guess you think it’s funny that a dog has climbed a tree.
When you looked up here and saw me, what you said was, “Tee hee hee!
Old Hank is really working hard on ranch security!”
And then began the laughing and the slapping of the knee.
I really am astonished at how childish you can sound.
Making mockeries and silly jokes while standing on the ground.
I wish that I could charge you for your laughter by the pound,
But here’s the joke, you hammerheads—you have to get me down! (Ho ho!)
You have to grow up, boys, you have to mature.
Your humor’s as funny as chicken manure.
I know that you’ll fight it as long as you can.
You have to grow up, boys, it’s part of the plan.
Pretty amazing song, don’t you think? You bet it was, and don’t forget that I composed it under the very harshest of conditions. No ordinary dog could have done such a thing. It was just too bad the jokers couldn’t hear it.
It wouldn’t have changed them or done any good, but I wish they could have heard it.
Where were we? Oh yes. I was up in the tree, riding out a very dangerous Code Three Situation, and the cowboys stood down below, facing the shocking prospect that they might have to grow up and do something constructive.
Even at a distance, I could see that it was hard on them. At last Loper said, “I think I’ve got a plan. Alfred, go get your mother, and tell her to bring a blanket.”
Alfred took off running to the house, and notice that he ran. He didn’t walk or loiter or lollygag around like some people I could name.
By now, you’re probably sitting on the edge of your chair, worried sick and wondering if they succeeded in getting me out of the tree. You’ll just have to wait and see.
Chapter Ten: The Rescue Mission Fails
This is getting pretty scary, don’t you think? You bet, but I hope you’ll stick with me. You probably think they got me out of the tree and everything worked out just fine, but I must warn you that we’re still a long way from that.
Let me set the scene again. Through circumstances beyond my control, I had gotten myself stranded in a tree, but don’t forget that I wasn’t sitting on a nice fat limb. That would have made everything easy.
No, thanks to Sally May’s scheming, treacherous little weasel of a cat, I had been lured away from the big limbs and had crawled my way out to the end of a shrimpy little limb, which was bending under my weight and swaying in the wind.
Do you see the meaning of this? In the first place, I wasn’t about to release my grip on that limb, because . . . well, because it was unthinkable. Hey, I was no dummy. If I let go of that limb, I would fall to the ground and would be splattered all over the ranch.
Okay, that’s Point One. Point Two is that neither Slim nor Loper could reach me, because the limb would break under their respective weights.
So when we add up the evidence in this case (Point One + Point Two), we come up with Point Three (1+2=3): How could they get me out of the tree if they couldn’t reach me?
That was the terrible dilemma that faced us, but you’ll be relieved to know that Loper had come up with a pretty good plan of action, and here’s the scoop on that. Captain Alfred returned with his momma, who carried Baby Molly in one arm and a wool blanket in the other.
Oh, and did I mention that Sally May didn’t look real happy? She didn’t. It appeared that she had been right in the middle of baking an angel food cake when Alfred had burst into the kitchen and called her out for Emergency Duty. She’d been forced to turn off the oven and leave the cake inside, and her first words to me were “If my cake falls . . .”
I held my breath, waiting for a long list of all the things she would do to me. But she didn’t list them. Instead, she glared up at me and muttered, “Hank, you are so dumb!”
That hurt. It really hurt. I hardly knew how to respond. I mean, I had to admit that this whole thing had the markings of something that was . . . well, pretty dumb, to use her words.
But she’d responded to the call, that was the important thing, and maybe we could, uh, work out the details at a later time.
So there they were, gathered at the base of the tree, and Loper put his Rescue Plan into action. Sally May set Molly down in the grass. She opened up the blanket and each of them gripped one of the four corners. (All blankets have four corners. Did you know that? It’s true).
Then they positioned themselves and the blanket right below—well, below ME, you might say, and Loper called out, “Okay, Hank. Jump!”
Jump?
Me, jump?
Was he crazy? Hey, for his information I was two thousand feet above the ground, and I had a Double Death Grip on that limb and I wasn’t fixing to . . .
Okay, Loper’s plan suddenly became clear to me. They were holding the blanket in such a way that it formed a kind of safety net. Do you get it now? All I had to do was let go of the limb and fall into the net.
“Come on, Hank. Jump! Jump! We’ll catch you.”
Great plan. Great idea. It had just one small flaw. When push came to shovel, I found that—oh boy, this is very embarrassing. How can I say this without creating the impression that—
Let’s just blunder into it and see where it leads. Dogs are afraid of heights, right? I mean, we’ve already discussed that, but maybe we should underscore and underline and emphasize that this is no ordinary fear. It’s a terrible fear! It’s so severe that it even has a scientific name. It’s called . . . Fallophobia.
I saw their faces looking up at me. They were waiting. Loper yelled, “Hank, for crying in the bucket, will you just let go?”
And Sally May muttered, “I knew it. It was too easy. That dog . . .”
Okay, shall we skip down to the bottom line? The bottom line is that Fallophobia is . . . uh . . . slightly irrational. I mean, with the thinking part of my mind I could see that this was a great plan and that it would work. If I would merely release my grip on the limb, I would fall into the blanket, and that would be the end of it.
But there is another side of a dog’s mind, this one quite a bit darker and . . . well, more mysterious, shall we say, and that’s where all the phobias stay. And that part of my mind saw this deal in a very different way, and it was sending out a stream of data and messages, such as:
“Are you crazy?”
“Do I look like a fool?”
“Forget that, Charlie!”
“Hey, this tree isn’t going anywhere, and neither am I.”
So, as you can see, we were on the road to getting ourselves into an . . . uh . . . awkward situation. I mean, I knew it was awkward. I knew what they wanted me to do, but . . .
Sigh. I just couldn’t bring myself to let go of the limb. But don’t forget: I felt terrible about it. No kidding.
Well, they dropped the blanket and began muttering and grumbling. Maybe they thought I couldn’t hear them, but I did. Slim kicked a rock and said, “Well, if the dufus likes that tree so much, let’s just leave him up there.”
That brought a lip-quiver from Little Alfred. “No! He’s my dog
gie and my fwiend, and I want to save him!”
There was a long silence. Then Loper turned to Slim. “I guess one of us will have to climb the tree.”
Slim nodded. “Yalp, and I’m dying to hear who that might be.”
“Well, you’re young, strong, athletic—”
“Uh-huh. Keep going.”
“And idle time has always been a problem for you.”
“Uh-huh. Keep going.”
Loper smiled. “And I’m the boss.”
“I figured it would come down to that.” Slim hitched up his jeans and gave Loper a sour look. “When I hired onto this outfit, somebody said it would be a cowboy job. Here I am, climbing dadgum trees to save a dog that ain’t worth eight eggs.”
He started up the tree. I think he could have climbed the tree without making all those grunting noises, and without mumbling all those threats. I mean, what was the big deal about climbing a tree to save a loyal friend in distress? But the way he grumbled and grunted, you’d have thought he was climbing up the Vampire State Building.
But don’t forget that I felt terrible about this. I did. I mean, when I’d signed on with Alfred’s pirate crew, I’d never dreamed . . . oh well.
Slim grunted his way up to the platform. There, he stopped to pull some splinters out of his arms. (Was it my fault that he’d gotten splinters? No, but guess who got blamed for it.) And he just happened to look up at the sky and noticed . . .
My goodness, it appeared that storm clouds were gathering—big dark thunderheads that rolled way up into the sky. Loper saw them too.
“Slim,” he called out, “I know that hurrying up goes against your nature, but I don’t think you want to be in that tree if lightning starts popping.”
Slim nodded, then glared at . . . why was he glaring at me? Had I ordered a storm? Did he think I wanted to be . . .
“Pooch, if I get killed by lightning, I’m going to come back as a flea and set up a drilling rig right on your . . .”
At that very moment, his boot slipped and he came within an inch of falling out of the tree. I won’t say that it served him right. I’ll say only that it forced him to concentrate on his business and to stop muttering threats at me.
He grabbed the limb. Down on the ground, Loper yelled, “Shake the limb! If you can shake him loose, we’ll catch him in the blanket.” Thunder rumbled in the cloud. “And hurry, first chance you get.”
Slim planted his feet and started shaking the limb.
Wham, wham, wham!
The limb shook and trembled. Out on the end, I felt myself being thrashed and tossed around. My teeth rattled inside my mouth. My eyeballs were rolling around in their sprockets.
And, yipes! My paws were slipping! I was losing the grip of my grasp! I turned my eyes to the ground and saw—
There, three thousand feet below, was the blanket, only now it seemed as small as a postage stamp.
“Hank, you birdbrain, let go!”
Let go? Was he crazy?
Maybe, if he’d kept shaking the limb, things might have worked themselves out. Maybe he would have shaken me loose, or maybe I would have conquered my terrible Fallophobia. But just then . . .
Chapter Eleven: Just What We Needed: Buzzards
You won’t believe this.
Who would have dreamed that two buzzards would land in the same tree that contained one dog and one cowboy? Not me. I mean, normal buzzards are shy about humans and go out of their way to keep away from them, right?
That’s the way it’s supposed to work, but guess who showed up. Wallace and Junior. They came flapping down out of the sky and crash-landed in the tree, right above me.
Slim froze and stared up at the big ugly birds. His mouth dropped open. All he could say was “Good honk! We’re drawing buzzards.”
Slim couldn’t hear the buzzards talking (humans don’t speak Buzzard), but I could.
Wallace yelled, “Here we go, son! A safe haven, one step ahead of the storm.”
“Y-y-yeah, b-but P-p-pa, I think w-w-we’ve got c-c-company.”
It was then that Wallace’s buzzard eyes fell upon me. “Well, I never—Junior, what is that thing out there on that limb?”
Junior grinned. “W-w-well, I th-think it’s our d-d-doggie f-f-friend, doggie friend.”
“Doggie friend! Junior, there’s two things wrong with that. In the first place, buzzards don’t make friends with dogs, and in the second place, dogs don’t climb trees. I’m sorry, son, but you need to get your glasses fixed.”
“Y-y-yeah, b-b-but I d-d-don’t wear gl-glasses.”
“Well, maybe you should. That ain’t a dog.”
“I-i-i-is t-too a d-d-dog.”
“It ain’t a dog! Junior, don’t argue with your . . .” Wallace squinted his eyes and gave me a closer inspection. “Well now, he does look kindly like a dog, don’t he?”
“Y-y-yeah, ’cause h-h-he is.”
“All right, maybe he’s a dog, but he’s no friend of ours. Junior, what do you reckon he’s doing up here, dogs don’t climb . . . son, tell that dog to scram out of here and leave us in peace!”
Junior gave me a smile and waved his wing. “H-h-hi, d-d-doggie. Wh-what you d-d-doing up in this t-t-t-tree, tree?”
“I can’t explain it, Junior. All I can tell you is that I’m here, and you can tell your old man that I’ve got no plans for leaving.”
Junior shrugged and turned to the old man. “P-p-pa, he s-s-said—”
“I heard him, I heard him.” Wallace whipped his head around and glared at me. “Pooch, I don’t believe in sharing trees with with a dog. It ain’t natural.”
“Then leave.”
“No sir, we ain’t a-going to leave. There’s a storm coming and we don’t fly in bad weather, no we don’t, so maybe we’ll have to share this tree, is what we’ll have to do.”
“Fine with me.”
Wallace tucked his head under his wing. “Junior, I’m fixing to take myself a nap. Tell that dog to lie still and shut up, ’cause if he wakes me up, I’m liable to be in a real cranky mood.”
“O-o-okay, P-pa.” Junior turned to me. “P-p-pa s-s-said . . .”
Just then, Slim climbed out on the limb and gave it another shake. “Hank, let go!”
I held on and rode it out, but all that shaking disturbed Wallace. His head came out from under his wing and he shot me a hot glare. “Dog, you was warned about making noise and carrying on. If this nonsense don’t stop right now, I’m liable to get on the peck.”
The old buzzard went back into his sleeping position. A moment later, Slim gave the limb another shake. Wallace’s head shot up and his eyes were on fire.
“All right, that done it! Dog, you are fixing to—”
“P-p-pa, it w-w-wasn’t the d-d-doggie. It w-w-was . . .” Junior aimed a wing at Slim. “. . . h-h-h-him.”
Wallace’s head swiveled around. “Well, who is he and what’s he doing in my tree?”
“W-w-well, I th-think he’s t-t-trying to h-h-help our d-d-doggie f-f-friend g-g-get out of the t-t-tree, tree, is h-h-how it l-l-looks to m-m-me.”
“Help him.” Wallace cut his eyes from side to side, then a big smile spread across his beak. “Why Junior, our doggie friend is in trouble, serious trouble! He might fall to the ground and—Junior, when was the last time we had a nice warm meal?”
“W-w-well, l-l-let me th-th-think . . .”
“It was two weeks ago, a dead rat on the side of the road, and son, this could be—rattle the tree, Junior, let’s help that fine man, jump up and down! Supper’s a-waiting! Go on, doggie, take a dive!”
Grinning like a lunatic, Wallace started jumping up and down on the limb. Slim hadn’t understood any of Wallace’s conversation, and I don’t know what he thought was going on, but he inched his way farther out on the limb and gave it a ferocious shake.<
br />
Once again, my teeth rattled. My ears flew in all directions. Leaves and cottonwood cotton filled the air. But through it all, I managed to hang on.
“Hank, let go of the dadgum . . . !”
CRACK!
Oops. I guess Slim went farther out on that limb than he should have. I could have told him. I mean, anyone with half a brain should have known . . .
Anyway, the limb broke. And fellers, you talk about things happening fast, and a situation going from bad to worse!
Maybe you think the limb broke in half and that Slim and I plunged to our deaths on the ground below. Or maybe you think Loper and Sally May and Alfred caught us in their safety net, and we all laughed and walked away.
Neither one.
Here’s what happened. The limb broke, but it wasn’t a clean break. Why? Because it was a green limb, and green limbs never break smooth in half, for the simple reason that—there’s a simple explanation for it, but we don’t have time to go into it.
And besides, I don’t know the simple explanation.
The limb cracked, see, but held together by a hinge of green wood. That was the good news. The bad news was that the limb went from pointing straight out to pointing straight down, and all at once we found ourselves in a very odd situation.
I managed, through brute strength and determination, to cling to the limb, and we’re talking about hugging that rascal with all four legs and paws. The limb swung back and forth, and I swung around, just barely hanging on. When I dared to open my eyes, I saw—
YIPES!
Guess who else was clinging to the limb with all his might, and whose face was now only six inches from the end of my nose.
Give up?
It was Slim, and boy, did he look . . . well, mad enough to commit destruction on someone, but he was so busy hanging on for dear life that he wasn’t able to do what he was thinking.
It was a . . . uh . . . very awkward moment. I mean, I felt terrible about it, for I understood that in a small but tiny way, I had been . . . well, partly responsible for . . . I mean, he was hanging upside down on a half-broken limb, and if the limb happened to break the rest of the way . . .
The Case of the Shipwrecked Tree Page 6