The Original Adventures of Hank the Cowdog

by John R. Erickson

  Vidgalent. Vidgallunt. Still doesn’t look right.

  Anyway, coyotes are superstitious brutes, and that deal about the secret caught them just right and saved my hide. Actually, it did better than that. It made me a kind of celebrity in the tribe, and I was treated like a visiting dignutarry digneterry dignitary, who cares?

  By everyone but Scraunch, that is, and he continued to give me hateful glances and mutter under his breath every time our paths crossed. I couldn’t blame him for being sore. I had won and he had lost, and you can’t expect everyone to be a good loser. As we say in the security business, show me a good loser and I’ll show you a loser.

  Scraunch had lost a big one, and I was confident that he would hate my guts forevermore, even though there was a good chance that I would eventually become his brother-in-law.

  You know, when Missy had first mentioned that possibility, it hadn’t struck me as a real good idea. I suppose at that time I was still thinking of going back home, back to Drover and Pete, the chickens, the sewer, the cowboys, my old job. But a couple of days in the coyote village pretty muchly convinced me that I had found my true place in the world as a savage.

  The life of a savage ain’t too bad. I admit that I was raised with a natural prejjudise predguduss bias against coyotes. Ma always told us that they were lazy, sneaky, undisciplined, and didn’t have any ambition. But what chapped her most about coyotes was that they ate rotten meat and it made them smell bad.

  True, every word of it. But what she didn’t tell us was that laziness and riotous living can be a lot of fun. I don’t blame her for not telling us that. I mean, she was trying to raise a litter of registered, papered, blue-ribbon, top-of-the-line cowdogs, and there’s no better way to mess up a good cowdog than to let him discover that goofing off beats the heck out of hard work.

  I discovered it by accident, and once I had a taste of indolence, I loved it. I mean, all at once I had no responsibilities, no cares, no worries. When I woke up in the morning, I didn’t have to wonder if my ranch had made it through another night, or if I would get yelled at again for something I hadn’t done.

  About a week after I joined the tribe, I made friends with two brothers named Rip and Snort. They were what you’d call typical good-old-boy coyotes: filthy, smelled awful, not real smart, loved to fight and have a good time, and had no more ambition than a couple of fence posts.

  If Rip and Snort took a shine to you, you had two of the best friends in the world. If they didn’t happen to like your looks or your attitude, you were in a world of trouble. I got along with them.

  One evening along toward sunset, they came around and asked if I wanted to go carousing. I was feeling refreshed, since I’d slept a good part of the day—got up around noon and ate a piece of a rabbit that Missy had caught, then went back to bed. I was all rested up and said, “Sure I’d love to go carousing.”

  So off we went, me and Rip and Snort, on a big adventure. We went down the canyon, crossed that big sandy draw that cuts through there, then on across some rolling country until we came to an old silage pit. I’d been by it many times, but I’d never taken the time to go into the pit and check things out. By the time I took over the ranch, the cowboys had quit feeding silage, so I didn’t know much about it.

  One of the things I didn’t know about silage was that it’s fermented, which means that it’s got some alkyhall in it, which means that if a guy eats enough of it, his attitude about the world will begin to change.

  All those years I’d spent on the ranch, and I never knew any of that. But Rip and Snort knew all about silage, yes they did, and they had made a well-packed trail into and out of the silage pit.

  So we started eating silage. Struck me as kind of bitter at first, but the more I ate the less I noticed the bitterness. By George, after about an hour of that, I thought it was as sweet as honey.

  Well, we ate and we laughed and we laughed and we ate, and when it came time to leave, Rip and Snort had to drag me out of there, fellers, ’cause I just couldn’t get enough of that fine stuff.

  A big moon was out and we went single file down a cow path, Snort in the lead, me in the middle, and Rip on the caboose. Funny thing, that cow path kept wiggling around and I had a devil of a time trying to stay on it. I asked Rip about it and he said he was having the same trouble, derned path kept jumping from side to side. (I suspect the silage had something to do with it, is what I suspect.)

  Well, next thing I knew, Snort topped a rise and came to a sudden halt, which caused a little pile-up, with me running into Snort and Rip running into me because couldn’t any of us see real well at that point.

  “Stop here,” said Snort, “sing many song. Sing pretty, sing loud, teach Hunk coyote song.”

  So we all sat down on our haunches, throwed back our heads, and started singing. Let’s see if I can remember how that song went.

  “Me just a worthless coyote, me howling at the moon.

  Me like to sing and holler, me crazy as a loon.

  Me not want job or duties, no church or Sunday school.

  Me just a worthless coyote . . .” and I don’t remember the last part, only it rhymed with “school.” Pool or drool, something like that.

  It was a crackerjack of a song. We ripped through it a couple of times, until I had her down. Then we divided up. Snort took the bass, Rip carried the melody, and I got up on the high tenor.

  Don’t know as I ever heard better singing. It was one of them priceless moments in life when three very gifted guys come together and blend their talents and sort of raise the cultural standards of the whole danged world. I mean, it was that good.

  We sang it four or five times, then all at once Snort’s ears perked up and he lifted his paw. We stopped and listened. Off in the distance, we heard yapping. There was something familiar about that yap, but for a minute I couldn’t place it. Then it occurred to me that we were sitting on a spot just a quarter mile north of ranch headquarters.

  That yapping was coming from Drover.

  I think Rip and Snort had took a notion to amble on down there and see if they could get into a fight. I had to explain that they couldn’t run fast enough to get Drover into a fight, that it would be a waste of their time.

  “Let me go down and talk to him,” I said. “He’s an old buddy of mine. We used to work together. Maybe he’ll come back and sing with us. We could use another guy on baritone.”

  They shrugged. Snort sat down and started scratching his ear. “More fun fight, but singing okay too. We wait.”

  So I trotted down to the ranch, weaving a little bit from side to side and humming “Me just a Worthless Coyote.” Say, that was a good song!

  When I was, oh, twenty, twenty-five yards away, I slowed to a walk. I could see Drover up ahead of me. He was peering off in the distance. The little dope hadn’t even seen me. I decided to stop and watch him for a minute.

  He was all bunched up and tense. Off in the distance he could hear Rip and Snort laughing and belching and having a good time. He’d cock his head and listen for a minute, then he’d give out a yip-yip-yip. On every yip, all four feet went off the ground. Then he’d stop and listen again.

  He never saw me, never had the slightest notion that I was sitting ten yards away from him, watching the whole show. This was my replacement, understand, the guy who had taken over my job as Head of Ranch Security. I didn’t need anyone to tell me that the ranch had gone completely and absolutely to pot.

  I cleared my throat. Drover froze. “What was that? Who’s there?”

  “What’s going on, son?”

  He gave out his usual squeak and in a flash he was high-balling it for the machine shed, squalling like a turpentined cat. He’d gone maybe ten, twelve yards when he slowed to a walk, then stopped.

  “Hank, is that you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It is?”

  �
�Uh-huh.”

  “How can I be sure? I thought you’d left the country.”

  “Well, why don’t you just trot your little self over here and see.”

  He came real slow, a few steps at a time. “It . . . it sure sounds like you.”

  “Son of a gun.”

  “You’re not fooling me, are you, Hank?”

  “Get over here and quit messing around.”

  “Okay, okay, I just . . . I want to be sure, that’s all.” He came creeping up to me. “Hank?”

  “Boo.”

  He screamed and jumped straight up into the air. “Hank, stop that, don’t do that to me! My nerves . . .”

  “Drover, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. What a pitiful excuse you are for a night watchman. I could have carried off half the chickenhouse and you never would have gotten the news.”

  He hung his head. “I know it. I’m a failure. Every morning I wake up and say, ‘Here’s another day for you to mess up, Drover.’ And I do, every one of them. It hasn’t been the same since you left, Hank.”

  “I knew it wouldn’t. I tried to tell ’em but they wouldn’t listen. I mean, you can’t treat a good dog like a dog and expect to keep him.”

  “Gosh, I wish you’d come back.”

  I laughed. “You can forget that, son, cause it’ll never happen. I’ve found a better life.”

  He looked me over real careful. “What’s come over you, Hank? You look different. You smell different. You stink.”

  “I’ve joined the coyote tribe.”

  I heard him gasp. “No!”

  “That’s right, and if you had a brain in your head, you’d come along and join up with ’em too. It ain’t a bad life, let me tell you.”

  He took a couple of steps back. “I can’t believe it. What would your mother say?”

  “She’d say I was a turncoat and a traitor. So what? I tried the straight life, I did my job, and what did I get? Abuse. Ingratitude. No thanks, life’s too short for that. I’ll cast my lot with the outlaws of the world.”

  “Three weeks ago,” he said in a quavery voice, “you were on the side of law and order, trying to catch the murderers. Now you’re one of them.”

  “That’s right.”

  He started crying. “Oh Hank, I can’t take this! I used to admire you so much. You were my hero, I thought you were the greatest dog in the world. Since I was a pup, I just wanted to be like you, brave and strong and fearless . . .”

  “Knock it off, Drover, I don’t want to hear that stuff.”

  “. . . and dedicated to duty. I knew I could never be as good as you, but I wanted to try. You were my idol, Hank.”

  “Cut it out, would you?”

  “Come back home, Hankie. I need you. The ranch needs you. We all need you.”

  That kind of struck me in the heart, hearing Drover say those things. Then Rip and Snort called for me.

  “Hunk! Come, sing. We tired wait!”

  “Who’s that?” Drover whispered.

  “Oh, some of my pals. Come on up the hill with me, Drover, and I’ll show you a good time, introduce you to my friends.”

  “Are they drunk like you?”

  There was a little edge in his voice. He’d never talked to me like that before. “Well uh, maybe they are and maybe they ain’t. Who cares?”

  “I care. I don’t associate with coyote trash.”

  “Well, lah-tee-dah! Aren’t we high and mighty tonight.”

  Drover dried his eyes with the back of his paw. “I better get on back to the ranch. I’m on guard tonight.”

  I laughed in his face. “You’re on guard! Son, you’re a sorry excuse for a guard dog, running for the machine shed every time you hear a sound.”

  “I’m not going to run anymore, Hank. Some­body’s got to protect the ranch. We can’t depend on you anymore.”

  “You’ll run. You always have, you always will.”

  “I ain’t going to run.”

  “Sure you will, and I can prove it. BOO!” He didn’t run. “That don’t prove a thing. When the time comes, when the chips are down, you’ll run and hide.”

  He looked me in the eye. “No I won’t. And Hank, if you come with them, I won’t run from you either.” He turned and started walking away.

  “You always were a little chump.”

  He stopped. “I may be a chump, Hank, but I’m not a traitor. Good-bye.”

  “Go on, you little dummy, who needs you anyway! Sawed-off, stub-tailed, self-righteous little pipsqueak!”

  Drover went his way and I went mine. On my way up the hill, I could hear the boys singing “Me just a Worthless Coyote” again. I took my place between Rip and Snort and started belting out the high tenor. We went on like that all night long, singing and laughing and chasing mice.

  But it wasn’t quite as much fun this time.

  Chapter Ten: Aged Mutton

  Must have been a couple of days later that I was sitting on the edge of the caprock, sunning myself and looking off in the distance. I’d been there most of the day, thinking about things and enjoying the quiet.

  The coyote village was awful noisy. Seemed that somebody was always in the midst of a squabble. When a husband and wife had a difference of opinion, they just by George had a knock-down drag-out fight, right there in front of everybody. Nobody ever seemed to get hurt in these brawls, and I guess they managed to solve their problems, but I could never get used to the noise of it.

  And the hair. After one of them family fights, the air was full of fur. A guy could hardly breathe for the hair.

  And then there was the kids. There must have been ten or twelve pups in the village, and let me tell you about coyote pups.

  Now, a dog pup is kind of cute. I’m not real fond of babies, understand, but even I have to admit that a little old cowdog pup is pretty cute. He’ll be fat as a butterball and covered with silky hair, and when he looks up at you with those big soft eyes, you can’t help but smile and say, “How’s it going, kid?”

  Coyote pups ain’t cute. They look mean, they sound mean, they act mean, and fellers, they are mean. They’ve got two jaws full of teeth that are as sharp as needles, and their idea of good clean fun is to slip up behind some unsuspecting somebody (me, for instance) and just bite the heck out of his tail.

  As a rule, I’m a pretty good sport. I was a kid once myself and I got into my share of mischief, but I can’t get used to people biting my tail. I mean, there’s something kind of special and private about a guy’s tail. If he’s got any pride at all, he tries to keep it nice, and he’s a little fussy about scabs and bald spots and tooth marks and slobber and all that stuff.

  What I’m saying is that my tail ain’t a play toy.

  But these kids, they’d sneak up behind me and sink their little needle teeth into my tail. First few times, I just growled at ’em: “Here! Y’all go on, get out of here!” Didn’t work. Coyotes are a little slow about taking a hint.

  They came back and did it again, so I took sterner measures—cuffed one of ’em. Know what he did then? He bit me on the paw. Well, I wasn’t going to take that off a dern kid, so I bit him on the scruff of the neck, and he somehow worked his way around and got hold of my left ear.

  That got me all inflamed, don’t you see, and I put the boy on the ground and was spanking some manners into him when his momma walked up.

  “You brute, leave my junior alone!”

  “Huh?”

  I looked around just in time to get slapped across the mouth. “There, bully!”

  I suppose I shouldn’t have slapped her back. But I did. Whop, right across the nose. “Maybe you can teach that boy some manners.”

  Whop! “Chicken dog!”

  Whop! “Wild hag!”

  She burst into tears and went bawling to her husband saying I was just an animal and had
beat up her danged kid and called her a wild hag. Turned out she was Scraunch’s woman, and here he came, all humped up and hair raised and yellow eyes aflaming.

  I had taken about all I wanted off Scraunch and his family, and I was ready to go into combat, but Missy and her father jumped in between us and averted a civil war.

  But the incident didn’t do much to improve relations between me and Missy’s brother. I had a feeling that sooner or later we were going to have a showdown.

  Funny thing about all this. Them coyotes didn’t mind chewing on each other. I mean, they were fighting all the time. But when I tried it, they didn’t like it. Made me think that no matter how long I stayed there, they would always think of me as an outsider.

  Anyway, I was sitting on the ledge, off to my­self and away from the noise, when Missy came up behind me. She nuzzled me with her nose and ran her claws down my backbone. She knew I liked that.

  “Something wrong? Hunk look sad.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just wanted to be alone, I guess.”

  “Not enjoy other coyote?”

  “Well . . . do you ever get tired of all the noise, all that fighting and yelling?”

  She shook her head. “That happy sound. When coyote happy, make bunch noise. When we married, we happy, make bunch noise too.”

  “I see, yes, well, I guess we have that to look forward to, don’t we?”

  “When pup come, even more noise, oh boy.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Hunk not be sad. Missy have something make Hunk feel good. We have feast, special food just for Hunk.”

  I followed her into the village. We went to her parents’ den. They were sitting out in front and the old lady was pulling cockleburs out of the chief’s tail. Missy asked her mother if she would prepare a special meal, just for me. She said she would. She left and was gone for ten, fifteen minutes.

  I tried to make conversation with the old man but it wasn’t easy. He started talking about the old days, about a time when he went a couple of rounds with a skunk. He seemed to think this story was hilarious. I thought it was moderately funny.