A five-letter word. “Broom” has five letters, not four.
When Sally May disappeared around the corner of the house, I began preparing my Broom Countermeasures Program. It appeared that the best course of action would be to make a dash for the nearest fence, dive over the top, and head for Tallest Timber, as we say. Yes, that was an excellent plan. It would not only allow me to save my life, but it would also prevent Sally May from wrapping that broom around my ears.
I was about to Launch All Dogs, when my ears picked up the sounds of someone . . . laughing. Giggling. Guffawing. I swung my gaze around toward the sound and saw . . . you’ll never guess who or whom or what I saw.
Or maybe you would. It was Pete, and okay, maybe that was pretty obvious, but the impointant point is that the sounds of his laughter disrupted my Launch Program. All at once I forgot about Sally May and the broom, and lumbered over to the fence and confronted the cat.
“I guess you think you’re pretty clever, Pete.”
“Well, Hankie, the facts pretty muchly speak for themselves.”
“Don’t try to deny it, kitty. Your fingerprints are all over this deal. I tried to do business with you, and what did you do? You went behind my back, schemed and weaseled, and lured me into a trap.”
He batted his eyelids and grinned. “I did, Hankie, and you know what? It was so easy, I almost feel guilty. You didn’t just take the bait; you ate the whole can of worms!” He broke into a fit of laughter.
I glared at him through the fence, and a deep rumbling growl began working its way up from the dark depths of my inner bean. “Go ahead, Pete, laugh it up, enjoy yourself. But there’s one little detail you forgot. Once I leave the yard, you’ll . . .”
WHACK!
Huh? Oh yes, the broom, and maybe it had been foolish of me to, uh, postpone the Launch All Dogs Procedure, because . . .
WHACK!
. . . because there was a crazy woman in the yard. She was armed with a deadly broom and . . .
WHACK!
“Get out of my yard, you oaf! Hike! Scat!”
. . . and if I didn’t do something fast, she was liable to do great harm to my . . .
WHACK!
I ran, fellers. The Launch Program fell by the hayseed and I went sprinting around the side of the house. Would you believe that she followed me, came after me with that deadly broom poised over her head? She did.
I could hardly believe it—a grown woman, a mother of two children, a productive member of society, chasing her loyal dog around the house! In daily broadlight.
WHACK!
She missed on that one, but not by much. Was there any chance we could call a truce and, well, patch things up?
WHACK!
No. It appeared that we had moved beyond patching things up.
“Get out of my yard, and don’t come back!”
Okay, fine. She wanted me out of her yard, so I altered course and headed straight for the . . .
BONK!
. . . fence, only at the last second I forgot to, uh, engage the landing gear, shall we say. Okay, I forgot to jump and ran into the fence. The collision set off a spray of checkers and colored lights behind my eyes, but this was the wrong time to pause and enjoy the fireworks display. I regained my feet and sprinted around the south side of the house.
At that very moment, Little Alfred came outside to see what was going on. When he saw the situation, he chirped a little laugh and said, “Hey, Mom, what are you doing? Are you chasing Hank with the bwoom?”
To which she screeched, “Your father’s dog destroyed, and I mean destroyed, my iris patch, and if I ever get my hands on him . . .”
Alfred’s eyes grew wide, and I was disappointed, very disappointed, to see his smile increase in size. “Uh-oh, Hankie, you’d better run!”
Yes, I was aware of that, and in fact I was running. The problem, he might have noticed, was that his mother—again, a mature woman and a mother of two children—was also running and seemed very serious about . . .
Somehow, in the midst of all the excitement and so forth, none of us had noticed that a car had pulled up in front of the house, or that two ladies had gotten out and were standing at the front gate. I noticed them when I came zooming around the northeast corner of the house.
They were strangers. I had never seen them before. I paused just a moment to . . .
WHACK!
Down came the broom (it missed me by an inch), and that’s when Sally May saw the ladies. She stopped in her tracks. An awful silence moved over us. The ladies stared at Sally May, as though . . . well, let’s face it, as though they were watching something really bizarre. And they were.
Sally May’s eyes flicked back and forth. Her face turned pink and then red, as she realized . . . she was dressed in ragged cutoff jeans and an old shirt, her hair looked like a buzzard’s nest, she was chasing her loyal dog around the yard . . . and she had visitors.
Her eyes rolled up inside her head, and I heard her mumble, “I can’t believe this.” Neither could I, but I took this opportunity to dive into a cedar shrub in front of the house and wiggle myself into the safety of its depths. There, I peered through the underbrush and watched.
The ladies exchanged worried glances, then one of them said, “Maybe we came at a bad time.”
Sally May gave them a crazy smile. “Oh no, it’s just another day in paradise. We live like this all the time. Can I help you with something?”
“We’re with the Census Bureau.”
Sally May pushed a sprig of hair out of her eyes. “The Census Bureau. Oh good.”
“Honey, I know you’ve already sent in your form—and we thank you for that—but we had a few more questions to ask.” The lady frowned at some papers in her hand. “How many toilets do you have in your house?”
Sally May’s eyes settled on the woman. “Toilets? Two.”
“And sinks or washbasins?”
“Two.”
“Is that counting the kitchen sink?”
“No.”
“So . . . you have a total of three sinks and washbasins?” Sally May said nothing. The woman wrote down the information. “Has anyone in your family ever suffered from a mental disorder?”
Sally May’s eyes were glittering with a kind of strange light. “Why yes. I suffered one five minutes ago when I found that my husband’s dog had dug up my flower bed. I was hoping to strangle him when you drove up.”
The ladies traded glances. “Maybe . . . maybe we should come back another time.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not having a good day.”
The ladies smiled and said good-bye, hurried back to their car, and drove away. Just then, Little Alfred came around the side of the house.
“Who was that, Mom?”
Sally May buried her face in her hands. “It was the Census Bureau, for crying out loud, the United States government! They’re gathering information about how we live . . . and they saw me . . .” She let out a moan, then uncovered her face. All at once her eyes seemed . . . well, on fire, and she hissed, “Where is that dog!”
Uh-oh.
I didn’t dare breathe or move a muscle. In the eerie silence, I heard her footsteps in the yard. They were coming closer to the shrubberies in which I was hiding and cringing.
I heard her voice. “Hank! Get out of my yard!”
Did she really think I was going to expose myself to her broom? Ha. We could forget that. Was it my fault that the census ladies had shown up just as she was chasing me around the house? No, but you’ll notice that I got blamed for it.
All at once she started slapping the shrub with her broom. Whap, whap, whap!
“Hank, if I get my hands on you, so help me I’ll . . .”
I guess she didn’t know that there was a big yellowjacket wasp nes
t in the bush or that her broom-whamming would get them stirred up.
Even more important was the fact that I didn’t know it either, so I can’t be held responsible. I was just an innocent bystander, a faithful dog who was trying to figure out how to please the people in his life.
Anyway, she managed to get the wasps really stirred up. When she saw the yellowjackets pouring out of the bush, she let out a screech, dropped her broom, gathered up Little Alfred, and they both dived inside the house, one step ahead of the entire Yellowjacket Air Force.
You’ll be disappointed to know that her last words, as she scrambled inside the house, were, and this is a direct quote: “If I ever see that dog again . . . !”
Chapter Twelve: The Cremated Roast Beef
Words can’t express how deeply those words cut into the crick of my quick. They hurt me terribly. I mean, the very idea that my master’s wife would blame me for the Wasp Incident . . . I had tried so hard to work out a peaceful solution to our . . .
Oh well. Life is often cruel and unfair. We dogs get blamed for crimes we didn’t commit, and we’re forced to take it. That’s just part of our job.
The important thing is that I had survived Sally May’s latest Thermonuclear Moment, but before I could make a run for safety, I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Was it possible that the census ladies had returned to ask more questions about toilets and sinks? If so, they didn’t know Sally May as well as I knew her.
I peered out of the shrubberies and saw the ranch’s flatbed pickup approaching. It pulled up in front of the house. The doors opened and out stepped Loper and Slim. As they walked toward the house, I heard them talking.
Slim: “Well, the windmill’s fixed and pumping water, so maybe you can force up a cheerful attitude.”
Loper: “We got lucky. It’ll probably break down again this afternoon.”
Slim: “It ain’t going to break down, ’cause it was repaired by a couple of windmill geniuses.”
Loper: Even if the mill pumps day and night, the tank won’t fill up for three days.”
Slim: “So we’ll haul water. That’s what that water trailer’s for.”
Loper: “It’ll take six loads. We’ll be hauling water until midnight.”
Slim: “Well, so what? I know you ain’t got any social engagements, ’cause nobody but me could stand to be around you for more than five minutes . . . and I’m starting to have second thoughts myself.”
Loper: “Very funny. I hope Sally May’s got a big lunch ready. I’m starved.”
They moseyed up the sidewalk and stepped up on the front porch. There, they pulled off their dirty boots with the boot jack. (That was another of Sally May’s Rules: no dirty boots in the house.) They removed their boots and socks, and Loper began swatting at the swarm of wasps that had lingered on the porch.
“Dadgum yellowjackets! Boy, they sure get bad this time of year.”
At that very moment, the door opened and Sally May stepped outside. From my hiding place in the shrubberies, I scanned her face to determine . . . oops, she still looked mad.
Loper greeted her with a smile. “There’s Mrs. America! Hi, hon, we’re starved.”
“I’ve just cremated the roast.”
Slim and Loper traded glances. Loper said, “I’ve always liked my beef well-done, how about you, Slim?”
“Oh yeah, you bet.”
Sally May’s eyes flashed. “It’s not well-done, it’s cremated! Blackened! Scorched! Charred! And do you know why?”
She told them the story of her morning, which included . . . would you like to guess who got blamed for cremating the roast beef? ME.
I mean, had I put the roast into the oven? Had I turned on the fire? Had I devoted my whole morning to ruining her lunch plans? No sir, but that didn’t matter. I got blamed for it anyway.
Okay, maybe the Incident in the Iris Patch had played a small role in the overall situation, but let me hasten to add . . . oh well.
Sally May told them about the census ladies. “There I was, chasing your dog around the yard, looking like Wild Mag, the trapper’s wife, and those women saw the whole thing. I’ve never been so humiliated! I could have died!”
Slim and Loper tried to bite back their smiles, but they couldn’t help laughing. They roared. Sally May glared at them, and for a long moment it appeared that she might erupt into another Thermonuclear Moment, but then she smiled, and even laughed.
“I guess it is kind of funny, now that it’s over. I hope you’re still laughing after you eat that roast.”
“We’ll love it, hon. Don’t worry about a thing. Let’s eat.”
Sally May lifted a finger in the air. “Not yet.” She told the men about her conversation with Mr. Wilkens. She turned to Slim. “He said you two were friends.”
Slim slouched against one of the porch posts. “He admitted it, huh? That was brave of him. Yep, we rode a few broncs together. Wilkie retired one night in Guymon when a big bald-faced horse stepped on his hat.”
Sally May frowned. “Stepped on his hat?”
“Yeah, his head was in it. It must have jarred something loose, ’cause when he got out of the hospital, he enrolled in college.”
Sally May said, “Oh,” and turned back to Loper. “Well, he’s invited Alfred to camp out with them and take part in the excavation.”
Loper nodded. “Good, good. Great opportunity to learn about archeology.”
“I’d feel more comfortable if you went with him. He’s only five years old.”
Loper’s eyes bugged out. “Me? Hon, they do archeology with dentist tools! That would drive me nuts. Scrape, scrape. Pick, pick.” Sally May waited. Slim smirked. “And besides, we’re out of water in the middle pasture. Those cows are standing on their heads to get a drink. We’ll be hauling water all day and into the night.”
Sally May fiddled with a button on her blouse. “How many cowboys does it take to haul water?”
Slim nodded. “You know, I hadn’t thought of that. Loper, I can haul that water and you can go learn all about archeology. I’ll bet you’d really enjoy it.”
Loper’s eyes darted back and forth. “Let me think about it. We might have to reschedule some of our work.”
Sally May stepped toward the door. “Alfred would be disappointed if he couldn’t go. Oh, and your dog is hiding in the bushes. Would you mind showing him the gate? Thanks.”
She went into the house, leaving the two men and a heavy silence. Loper turned to Slim. “So you’re all excited about hauling water, huh?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say excited, but I’m always glad to volunteer my service to the ranch.”
“No kidding?”
“Well, sure.” Slim hitched up his jeans. “I mean, how many times does a grumpy rancher get invited to dig around in the dirt with a toothpick . . . in the heat of summer?” Slim snorted a laugh. “I’m sure it’ll raise your IQ a couple of points, and everybody knows you need some help.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh. I just wish I could be there with a camera. Heh.”
Loper rocked up and down on his toes and gazed off in the distance. “You know, Slim, one of the most satisfying parts of being the boss on an outfit like this is . . . you can grant wishes.”
Slim stared at him, and I noticed that the corners of his mouth began to sag. “What are you talking about?”
“Wishes. You wished that you could be there with a camera, so we’ll borrow Sally May’s camera.”
“Wait a second, hold on. Loper, I hope you ain’t thinking . . .”
Loper draped his arm over Slim’s shoulder. “You know, Slimbo, this water situation is so serious, I think we’d better let top management handle it. I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Slim brushed his arm away. “I’m sure I don’t agree.”
“You’l
l get to spend some time with your old friend.”
“He ain’t as good a friend as I thought. And if it makes any difference, I’ve never had the slightest interest in archeology.”
Loper gave that some serious thought. “Slim, one part of me feels your pain. The other part of me just doesn’t care. Pack your toothbrush, buddy.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“No. And come to think of it, you better pack a couple of toothbrushes. You might be digging with one of them.” Loper let out a wicked cackle. “See you inside. And throw Bozo out of the yard, would you?”
Loper went inside and the door closed behind him. Slim glared at the door for a moment, then raised a bony fist into the air and yelled, “One of these days, the hired hands of this world are going to rise up and revolt! It ain’t fair! And, Loper, you’re a low-down skunk!”
Slim stood there, scowling, then stepped off the porch in his bare feet and came creeping over to the shrubbery in which I was . . . well, hiding. I stopped breathing and didn’t move a muscle. Maybe he wouldn’t see me. Maybe he’d think . . .
Suddenly I saw his face through the bushes, and heard his voice. “Hi, puppy. I see you.”
Yes, well, I saw him too, but if he thought . . . I switched the tail section over to Slow Taps.
“Hank, I’d be mighty proud if you’d get out of Sally May’s yard.”
Right, I understood his wishes, but the fact of the matter was that . . . well, cedar shrubs make shade, and I had sort of decided . . . that is, if it was okay with him, I might just stay in the shade of the shrubberies.
He dropped his smile. His face turned into a mask of angry lines and fangs and bulging eyeballs, and suddenly he began screeching at me. “Get out of the yard, or I’ll kick your tail up between your ears! Get out!”
Okay, fine. Hey, if I’d known he was so serious about it . . . he didn’t need to screech at me. Dogs have feelings, too.
The Case of the Most Ancient Bone Page 7