Wow. It’s pretty amazing what dogs can do, but around nine-thirty, we ran out of popcorn, and that ended our evening of fun and entertainment. Slim got up out of his chair and took a big stretch.
“Come on, dogs, it’s time for y’all to answer the Call of the Wild.” We followed him out on the porch. He pointed up at the moon. “Moon’s got a ring around it, a sign the weather’s fixing to change. Which reminds me. My pot’s got a water ring and I need to soak it with Babbo.”
Water ring? Babbo? It made no sense to me. One minute he was talking about the moon and the weather, and the next minute…I don’t know, he’d switched to water and cooking pots and Babbo, whatever that might have been. You know, we dogs are doing well if we understand half of what our people say, and guess who always gets blamed for the communication failures. The dogs.
The truth is, our people mutter and mumble, talk to themselves, and never bother to explain anything. And with Slim, the lines of communication are even more snarled, because he spends half his time pulling pranks. He would rather play pathetic tricks on his dogs than…I don’t know, eat popcorn, I suppose.
Do you remember the time he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it up over his head, and buttoned it again? I remember it very well. It made him look like a man without a head, and you can imagine what he did with that. Naturally, I started growling, I mean, that’s what a dog is supposed to do when he sees a headless man on his ranch, right? I growled and barked, so he made claws with his hands and came after me, and…
We don’t need to go into all the details. The point is that we dogs never know what to believe or what’s coming next, so it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t pay any attention to his statement about pots, rings, and Babbo. As you will see, it almost cost me my life, but that’s getting the cart in front of the wagon.
Drover and I answered The Call of the Wild, and Slim let us back into the house.
He said good night, and went off to his bedroom. We curled up in front of the stove, and the next thing we knew…
You probably thought I was going to say, “The next thing I knew, it was daylight.” Not quite. The next thing I knew, it was about four o’clock in the morning. The stove had burned down to embers, and the house had gotten cold.
This problem can be corrected if a certain member of the household will get out of his warm bed, collect an arm-load of wood from the wood pile on the porch, and chunk up the stove. Dogs don’t do wood, and sometimes Slim doesn’t either. He lets the fire die down and covers up his head with a wool blanket, and the house gets cold.
In other words, this was not a Dog Problem. It was a Human Problem, but we dogs were left to cope with the aftermaths of the consequences. We shivered on a cold floor, and tried to sleep.
Drover was making his usual orchestra of weird sounds: chirps, hicks, snorts, grunts, and whistles. Who can sleep through such noise? Well, I tried. That’s where we were—me trying to sleep and Drover making more noise than a room full of monkeys.
But then he did something unusual. He sat up and said, “Hank, I’m thirsty.”
I had put my calls on hold, but somehow this one got through, and I replied, “Rubbish. If you were thirty, the sandwiches would be growing sideways.”
The voice came again. “No, I said I’m thirsty.”
“That’s impossible. We haven’t had Wednesday yet and Thursday doesn’t grow on trees.”
“Hank, wake up. You’re babbling.”
I lifted my head and saw…something, maybe a dog. Yes, it was a dog. “If Babylon is such a great place, why don’t you move there and leave me alone?” I blinked my eyes. “Where are we?”
“We’re in Slim’s living room. I’m Drover, remember me?”
I narrowed my eyes and studied him. “We’ve met before?”
“About ten thousand times.”
“No wonder I’m so tired.” I struggled to my feet and took a few steps. “Something’s wrong with my legs. I’m walking crooked.”
“You’re still asleep.”
“I am not asleep. I’ve been awake for hours.” I stopped and turned to face him.
“Don’t we play on the same popcorn team?”
“Yep, that’s me. Are you awake now?”
“Of course I’m awake. What is the point of this conversation?”
“I’m thirsty.”
At last the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place. In the middle of the night, I was talking to Drover, and he was thirsty.
Chapter Three: The Poisoned Toilet Bowl
I looked into his eyes and felt that I was peering into two cardboard tubes with nothing on the other end. That might sound cruel, but it was true.
“You woke me up to tell me that you’re thirsty? That’s ridiculous. How can you be thirsty in the middle of the night?”
“I don’t know, but I am.”
“Why didn’t you get a drink before you went to bed?”
“I was afraid I’d wet the floor.”
“Oh brother. Drover, you are the most…Slim keeps a water bowl beside the back door. Instead of waking me up, why didn’t you just go to the water bowl and get yourself a drink?”
“Well, I tried but it was empty. I guess he forgot to fill it.”
“Then why didn’t you do the obvious—walk into the bathroom and drink out of the pot? That’s what pots are for.”
He rolled his eyes around. “Well…it’s dark in there and I’m scared of the dark.”
“Oh brother. So you expect me to give you an escort into the bathroom? Is that what you’re saying?” He nodded. “You can forget that, pal. I’m off duty and I don’t give escorts in the middle of the…” I heaved a sigh. “But if you don’t get your drink, you’ll be whining all night and I’ll never get back to sleep.”
“I’m sorry to be such a burden.”
“If you’re so sorry, quit being a burden. Drink water during the daylight hours, like every other dog in America. Come on, let’s get this over with.”
“I sure appreciate this.”
“Please hush.” I headed down the dark hallway and stopped at the bathroom door. Drover followed. “Okay, this is the bathroom. The pot is over there. Get your drink and hurry up.”
He crept into the bathroom. A moment later, I heard his voice. “Uh oh.”
“What does that mean?”
“Somebody put the lid down on the pot.”
“Impossible. Bachelors never do that.”
“Well, somebody did. Come look.”
There was just enough moonlight coming through the window so that I could see the device. And, much to my surprise, Drover had gotten it right. Somebody had put down the lid.
Drover was fretting. “What’ll we do now?”
“We? You’re the one who wants the drink. Figure it out.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Drover, put your nose under the lid, lift it up, and stick your head inside.”
“What if my head gets caught?”
“It won’t get caught. The lid is on hinges.”
“Well, I guess I could try.”
“Give it a try.” I licked my lips and realized that they were dry. “As a matter of fact, I’m kind of thirsty myself, so make it snappy.”
Drover slipped his nose under the lid, poked his head inside the bowl, and began lapping. The sound of water produced mental pictures of a pool of crystal clear spring water on a hot afternoon. I was ready for a drink.
“Are you done yet?” He removed his head and I noticed that he was making a sour face. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. The water has a funny taste. I don’t want any more.”
“Good. It’s my turn.”
“I thought you weren’t thirsty.”
“I wasn’t until I had to stand here, listening to you guzzle.”
; “You know, Hank, I’m not sure you ought to drink that water. It has a soapy taste.”
“Get out of the way.”
I pushed him aside, slipped my nose under the lid, lifted it up several inches, and plunged my entire head, face, and nose into the porcelain bowl. Then, with the wooden seat resting against the top of my head, I began lapping cool spring water.
Okay, maybe it had an odd taste, but ranch dogs don’t worry about such little details. Hey, we’re the same guys who drink out of stock tanks, creeks, and mud puddles.
Wow, great water, and it really hit the spot. I drank my fill and at that point, all I had to do was…HUH?
Holy smokes, I couldn’t get my head out! See, the toilet seat was resting on the top of my head, and when I tried to back out, the stupid lid became wedged behind my ears.
Actually, there was never any chance of me drowning, but let me tell you something. If your head has never been trapped inside a toilet bowl, don’t laugh at someone who’s been through such an ordeal.
It was scary. My mind was telling me it wasn’t a big deal, but there I was in this dark place, hearing my own voice in an echo chamber. It sounded like…I don’t know, like a voice from the Bottomless Pit of Doom.
“Drover, do something! We have a Code Three. I can’t get my head out of here!”
“I tried to tell you.”
“Hurry up and do something!”
“Help, murder!”
What’s a dog to do? I went into Full Reverse on all engines, and we’re talking about all four legs digging deep and throwing up sparks in the night. After a terrible struggle, my head popped free and…well, I went roaring backwards, hit the wall, and ended up on the floor. Two towels fell off the towel rack and landed on top of my head.
Whew! I had survived the experience, but then…oops. The bathroom light came on and I found myself looking into the eyes of…gulp…Slim Chance. There he stood in his red one-piece long john underwear—hair down in his face and wearing an expression that suggested…irritation.
Mad. He looked mad and burned me up with a hostile glare. “Hank, were you drinking out of the pot?”
Why had he addressed that question to me? What about the little ninny who had started the whole thing? It was then I realized that Drover had vanished, leaving me all alone to face Slim’s wrath.
I held my head at a proud angle and gave him a direct gaze that said, “Of course we were drinking out of the pot. What did you expect? You fed us dry popcorn and didn’t put out any water for us, and we chose not to perish from thirst. I got my head caught in the commode, but managed to survive. Thanks for all your concern, and you can go back to bed.”
Slim rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Birdbrain. I closed the lid on the pot for a reason.”
A reason?
“I put Babbo in the water.”
Babbo?
“Cleanser. You drank toilet bowl cleanser.”
Huh?
Hmmm. Perhaps that explained the odd taste. Well, how was I supposed to know? Slim wasn’t famous for cleaning anything in his house, and who would have guessed…
Uh oh. Something was happening in the depths of my stomach. It came suddenly, in a rush and a blur. My head began moving up and down, and I heard odd noises coming from deep inside my body.
“Ump. Ump. Ump.”
Slim’s soggy eyes burst into flames. “Get out of here! Outside, quick!” He made a dash for the front door and I heard him yell, “This way, pooch, outside!”
You know, in moments of crisis, we sometimes make peculiar decisions. Later, we look back on our actions and wonder why we did them. See, I knew he wanted me to make a dash for the front door and to finish off the drama in his yard. It would have been the sensible thing to do, and yet…
And yet in that tense, stressful moment when I had to choose between going left toward the front door, or going right toward the darkness and solitude of Slim’s bedroom, I, uh, made a hard right turn and went galloping down the hall to the bedroom.
Looking back, I can only guess that I couldn’t bear the thought of purging my system in front of an audience. (There’s that word again: bear. Was that a clue? Maybe not). Yes, it was my sense of modesty that drove me into the bedroom. I was ashamed that I had guzzled tainted water; ashamed that I had ignored the little warnings of my taste buds; ashamed that the nasty stuff had made me ill.
And most of all, I was ashamed…no, I was furious that Drover had sat there like a stump and allowed me to drink poison!
Okay, maybe he’d muttered something about a “funny taste,” but he should have warned me that the stuff was contanimated…laminated…concreeminated…he should have warned me that someone had tampered with our water supply.
But he didn’t, and there I stood in Slim’s bedroom. My mind was fogged and my gizzardly depths cried out for some kind of release. I had to do something, so I did what brave American dogs have been doing for centuries.
I crawled under the bed.
There, I found the privacy I needed for this ordeal, a place where I could correct my mistakes in a quiet spot and spare myself the humilification of being mocked by a crowd of small minds. If I was lucky, nobody would ever find the uh…mess.
And, you know, it worked out pretty well. The first ten seconds were violent and messy, but then it was over. I had faced the crisis head-on, and now it was just an unpleasant memory.
Good news, but things got even better when I was able to express this Learning Situation in a wonderful song. Would you like to hear it?
Be Careful When You Drink From the Pot
Be careful when you drink from the pot.
You might think the water’s pure when it’s not.
A thirsty dog is full of hope
But if the bowl is full of soap,
It changes the equation quite a lot.
It’s confusing when a bachelor displays
A sudden interest in Good Housekeeping ways.
Slim rarely cleans his house,
Fussy mice have all moved out,
So what’s the deal…Babbo in the commode?
Just when you think you know your people to the core,
They change their patterns and you find there is more:
Hidden things with no suggestion
That can wreck a dog’s digestion.
Makes you wonder if they do this for a joke.
How’s a dog supposed to know what to think?
Is the water in the house fit to drink?
Tainted water starts a blizzard
When it ends up in your gizzard.
It can rattle your insides like an earth…quake.
The moral of this song is “Dogs Beware!”
Choose your source of drinking water with great care.
If the lid’s down on the pot,
It’s a sign that you should not
Stick your head inside and guzzle like a hog.
If the lid’s down on the pot,
It’s a sign that you should not
Stick your head inside and guzzle like a hog.
Chapter Four: Bears Inside the House!
I told you it was a wonderful song. Sweet, tender, great message, filled with meaning. Awesome.
I emerged from my sanctuary, ready to begin my life all over again. I felt much better, took a big stretch, gave myself a shake, and trotted toward the living room. I had a feeling that Slim would be looking for me. Sure enough, he was, and wearing a deep scowl.
“What were you doing back there?”
Me? Oh, nothing. I just made a wrong turn, is all.
“You need to go outside.”
Fine. No problem.
I went out the door and sat down on the porch. The air was chilly. Behind me, Slim waited for something to happen. He was getting cold. “H
urry up, I ain’t going to stand here all night.” Two minutes passed. I could hear him grumbling. “I thought you were sick.”
Sick? Not me.
He sighed. “Okay, come back inside.”
I scrambled through the open door and returned to my place on the floor. Drover was already there, the little…Slim chunked up the stove with a couple of pieces of hackberry, then walked through the house, looking for…well, a puddle or something. He found nothing. Hee hee.
“I’m going back to bed. I don’t want to hear another squeak out of you owl-heads. Don’t bark, don’t snore, don’t do anything, and stay out of the bathroom.”
Yes sir.
He went back to his bedroom and turned off the light. I heard the squeak of his bedsprings, indicating that he had crawled back into the sack. What a grouch.
The house fell into a peaceful silence. Whew. I had dodged a bullet.
At that point, I turned a ferocious glare on my assistant. “Drover, do you have any idea what happened to me after you ran like a little chicken and left me alone in the bathroom?”
He lifted his head and gave me his usual silly grin. “Well, let me think. Did you get sick?”
“Yes. I got sick—because you sat there and let me drink two gallons of water laced with Babbo.”
“I told you it tasted funny.”
“It did NOT taste funny, it tasted horrible.”
“Why’d you drink it?”
“Because…how dare you ask such a question?”
“Just curious, but I already know the answer.”
“You don’t know the answer. Even I can’t figure it out. In certain respects…well, it wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”
“You never listen. That’s the answer.”
I flinched. “What? Say that again, slowly.”
The Case of the Prowling Bear Page 2