When he started yelling and shaking the shrub, I decided that . . . well, maybe he wanted me to leave the yard, right? And maybe he was pretty serious about it, and it appeared that our attempts to negotiate a settlement had, uh, ended in failure.
I ran toward daylight, exploded out of the shrubberies, squirted between his legs, sprinted across the yard, and flew over the fence as gracefully as a deer. Behind me, I heard a scream of pain.
“Eeeee-yowwww!”
Okay, Slim had found the wasp nest, or they had found him, and one or more of the little monsters had nailed him with their stingers. Well, that was too bad. I refused to take responsibility for his wasp stings, and Slim got exactly what he deserved for being such a rude person.
Once I left the green pastures of Sally May’s yard, I found myself in the heartless grisp of Endless July. I began to wilt and melt. All the bodily rhythms of my body began to slow and sink. I started panting. Precious drops of water dripped off my tongue, and all at once I felt myself being pulled into the Black Hole of Molasses.
I slowed from a run to a walk, then flopped down in some pitiful fried weeds that gave no more shade than . . . something. Than a bunch of pitiful fried weeds. And there my body shut down all but the most vital of functions. And I sang a song to protest the dreadful heat. Here’s how it went.
I’m Burning Up!
I’m burning up, I am boiling.
A dog can hardly function when he’s broiling.
This coat of hair is hotter than a furnace top.
I really really wish that I could take it off.
The elements are conspiring to corrode my will.
My job and everything I do have lost their thrill.
If a blizzard were to come, it would sure be nice.
I would give a pretty penny for a piece of ice.
I’m being barbecued alive on the grill of fate.
Sizzling and popping on the sun’s hot grate.
I tried to fool myself to think I just don’t care,
Then realized my temperature was medium rare.
Let me ask you, how’s a dog supposed to function in this heat?
I have a job and many duties that I must complete.
I am trying to convince myself that the weather’s nice and cool,
But here I am, a guinea pig in someone’s cooking school!
I am dying in this heat, I’m being scorched alive.
I don’t know if it’s better to be stewed or fried.
My juices have been boiled and there’s nothing left.
The thing that really puzzles me is . . . who’s the chef?
So there you are. That’s the kind of song a dog sings when he’s being boiled and fried in the sun.
Chapter Thirteen: I Get Demoted
At 1:00 or thereabouts, Slim and Loper came out of the house and walked to the yard gate. There, they stopped. Loper glanced over both shoulders and said, “She was right. That roast was cremated.”
“Well, it was better than boiled owl.”
They shared a laugh, then Loper yawned and stretched his arms. “I’m going to hook up the trailer and start hauling water, but I want you to know that I’ll be with you in spirit. Don’t forget your bedroll. That ground gets hard in the middle of the night.”
Slim gave him a scorching glare. “You ain’t one bit funny, Loper, and there will be a time for paybacks.”
“Have fun.”
Loper headed for his pickup, whistling a tune. Slim’s gaze followed him and he muttered, “A man invests a small fortune in cowboy gear, and they send him off to summer camp! Baloney.”
Loper drove away in a cloud of dust, just as Alfred and his momma came out of the house. Alfred was loaded down with camping gear and his eyes were sparkling with excitement. The boy said, “I’m all ready, Swim. This is going to be fun!”
Slim ran a toothpick through his mouth and grumbled, “I’ll bet.”
Well, it appeared that the moment had arrived for Our Team to leave for the excavation site. In my spot in the wilted weeds, I launched myself into the Jack and Lift Procedure. In the terrible heat, this was no small matter.
First, I lifted the front half of my enormous body and propped it up on my two front legs. Next, I jacked up the hind end and slipped my two back legs beneath it. Then and only then did I test the entire structure to see if it would carry the full weight of my body. It did, and I made my way down the hill to the yard gate.
When Alfred saw me, he beamed a smile. “And Hankie can go with us!”
There was a moment of dead silence. Slim and Sally May exchanged looks, and she said, “I don’t think so.”
“But Mom, Mr. Wilkens has his dog.”
“Honey, his dog has manners. Your dog spent his whole morning trying to drive me batty. He doesn’t deserve any privileges.”
“But Mom . . .”
Slim nodded. “Your momma’s right. One dog on an archeology site is probably enough.”
Sally May leaned toward Slim and whispered, “When you leave, I’ll lock him in the barn, so he won’t follow you.”
What?
Did you hear that? I couldn’t believe my ears. Leave me behind? Deny me the opportunity to expand my career? There must be some mistake. I turned toward Slim and proceeded to give him Sad Eyes and Spiritually Wounded Tail. Maybe it would work. Don’t forget that Slim and I had a long history of . . .
He didn’t notice, didn’t even look at me. Okay, we were down to Sally May and . . . gulp. You know, when you’re down to Sally May, you’re down to . . . not much. Over the years, I had tried SO HARD to live up to her expectations of Good Dogness, but somehow, when she and I occupied the same space for a few minutes, things went wrong.
Could I change her heart and mind? I had to give it a shot. I squeezed up a facial expression called “I Ask So Little” and hoped it might soften her heart.
“No.”
Huh? Hey, I hadn’t even gotten to the good part.
“No.”
Would it help if I licked her on the ankle?
“Stop that!”
See? What did I tell you? Down in flames. Nothing works on that woman.
I cranked my tail up between my legs, lowered my head, and slunk away—shamed, disgraced, rejected by the very woman to whom I had devoted my life to. I switched my eyes over to a routine we call I’m Not Sure I’ll Make It Through the Day and even provoked a spell of coughing. Sometimes that will touch the hearts of the women-folk, coughing.
From my deathbed, I watched them. They loaded the camping gear into Slim’s pickup. Alfred gave his mother a hug. “Bye, Mom. I sure wish my dad could come with me.”
“I know you do, sweetie, but he’s worried about the cattle.” She gave Slim a pat on the arm. “Slim, this is very kind of you, and I know Loper appreciates it.”
“Yes, he mentioned that.”
“It’s just too bad this water situation came up.”
“Yalp. Well, Button, let’s load up. The excitement is starting to build.”
They got into Slim’s pickup, waved one last good-bye, and drove away. Only then did the cinder block of truth come crashing down upon my head. They had actually left me behind! I was trying to work my way through this crushing development when Drover arrived.
He glanced around. “I’ll be derned. You’re not going?”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you get in trouble with Sally May . . . again?”
“That’s one way of putting it. Yes.”
“Maybe you’d better stay out of her yard.”
I gave him a withering glare. “Drover, when I need advice from you, I’ll ask for it. Now, please hush. Oh, and hold my calls. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Yeah, but Sally May just called your name.”
“What?”
<
br /> He pointed his paw. “She’s calling you. Maybe she changed her mind.”
I moved my gaze toward the yard gate and saw her standing there. She wore a friendly smile, and she was calling my name in a pleasant tone of voice. “Hank? Come here, boy.”
I whirled back to Drover. “Excuse me, I’ve just received an important call. It appears that Sally May has begun to regret her cruel and shabby treatment of me and wants to make a complete apology.”
“How sweet!”
I squared my shoulders and trotted down to the gate. Would I be gracious enough to accept her apology? Sure. Of course. To be honest, I couldn’t understand why it had taken her so long to patch things up, but as they say, “Better late than later.” By George, if she was willing to walk the first mile, I could sure walk the second step.
She had parked Baby Molly in the stroller and was standing beside the yard gate, beaming a warm smile in my direction. As I approached her, I found myself thinking, “Why couldn’t it be this way all the time?” How had things gotten so badly out of kilter? It was a crying shame that two grown, mature individuals . . .
What was that thing in her hand? A long piece of leather? What was she doing with . . . HUH? I stopped in my tracks.
“Come on, boy, come here.”
All of a sudden I remembered what she’d whispered to Slim, something about “When you leave, I’ll lock him in the barn.” You’d forgotten about that, but I hadn’t. No sir, and I had a pretty good idea who the “him” was. ME. And getting myself locked up in a dungeon wasn’t going to fit into my schedule.
She sensed that something was afoot. Her smile slipped a couple of notches and her voice acquired an edge. “Hank, come here! Now.”
I, uh, went to Slow Swings on the tail section and avoided her gaze. I had always taken pride in being a loyal, obedient dog, but she was putting me in an impossible situation. Could we discuss this? I mean, I had already made plans for the rest of the day and, well, I’d never been fond of leashes.
“Hank!”
She took a step in my direction and snapped her fingers. That was a bad sign. When Sally May goes to snapping those fingers, you’d better take cover. I began edging away.
Her eyes flared. “Hank, come here this minute!”
I hadn’t planned to run, honest. I mean, running away from her could have been interpreted as a sign of disobedience, but when she lunged toward me with her hands shaped like claws, what was I supposed to do, sit there and say “Duh?”
No sir, I did what any normal, healthy American dog would have done. I did a quick one-eighty, pushed the throttle to Turbo Three, and headed for a better climate, so to speak.
“Hank, come back here! So help me, if I ever get my hands on you . . .”
Now, what kind of moron would stop after hearing that? Did I really want to find out what she would do if she ever got her hands on me? I had a pretty good idea—unscrew my neck, shake me until my eyeballs fell out, lock me in the deep freeze, something awful—and I found myself pushing the throttle up to Turbo Four.
Behind me, she screeched, “Disobedient hound!”
I felt pretty bad about the whole situation and knew it wasn’t going to help our relationship, but gee whiz . . . if she had tried a softer approach, maybe we could have worked things out, but when she came after me with her claws . . . oh well. It was water under the brig.
I went streaking away from the house, past the machine shed, past the chicken house, and down the hill toward the corrals, setting a course to the west. Maybe you think I spent the rest of the day hiding out and trembling in fear that Sally May might track me down and lock me up in the barn.
No sir. By the time I reached the west side of ranch headquarters, two things had happened. A New Plan for the Future had begun to glow in the back of my mind and Drover had caught up with me.
He arrived, huffing and puffing. “Boy, that was scary. What happened?”
“She was plotting to lock me up for the rest of the day.”
“I’ll be derned. Why would she do that?”
“’Cause she thought I might go running off to the lake.”
“Aw heck, you’d never do that. Would you?”
I gave him a steely glare. “Of course I would. They need me over there, Drover, and a cowdog always goes where he’s needed.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“They, all of them. Little Alfred needs a loyal friend to guard him through the night, and Mr. Wilkens needs a bone expert to help him with his arkinsawlogy work.”
“I think it’s archeology.”
“Please don’t interrupt when I’m speaking. And last but not leashed, the lovely Sardina Bandana needs my warm presence beside her.”
He sat down, lifted his right hind leg, and began hacking at his ear. “You know, I don’t think her name is Sardina. That man called her something else.”
I roasted him with my eyes. “Who or whom are you going to believe: the dog who loves her or some stranger you never saw before today?”
“Well, he ought to know the name of his own dog.”
“And I ought to know the name of the lady who adores me. Will you please stop scratching your ear?”
“I’ve got a flea.”
“I don’t care. Scratching is rude and very distracting. And besides, we have a long journey ahead of us.”
He stopped scratching and stared at me. “We do?”
“Yes. The lake is two miles west of here, and there’s some danger that we’ll encounter coyotes along the way.”
“Coyotes!”
“Yes, and you’ll be proud to hear this.” I laid a paw on his shoulder. “Drover, I’ve decided to move you up to the varsity. Congratulations.”
Chapter Fourteen: The Runt Gets His Big Chance
If you recall, I had just given Drover the great news: I had decided to move him up to the varsity.
His eyes crossed. “The varsity! You mean . . .”
“Yes, Drover, I think you’re ready for the Big Game. I’m going to give you the starting position at offensive tackle. Is that exciting or what?”
His eyes grew wider. “Tackle! Me?”
“Yes sir. You’ll be right up front with the big boys. I want you to go out there and really bust somebody, show ’em who’s boss.”
“I already know.”
“What?”
“I said . . . varsity, oh boy. Goodie.”
“That’s the spirit, Drover. This could be the biggest game of the season. Let’s go get ’em!”
He jumped to his feet and let out a cheer. “Let me at ’em, I’ll hammer their helmets! I’ll knock their socks off and then I’ll . . .” Suddenly, he went down like a rock. “Oh drat the luck, there it went! This old leg quit me again! Oh, the pain!”
“Maybe it’s just a cramp.”
“No, I really messed it up this time.”
“Work through it, son, you’re on the varsity now. The team needs you.”
“I know, it’s what I’ve always dreamed of, but I just don’t think this old leg’ll stay under me.”
I paced a few feet away and gazed up at the sky. “Okay, here’s an idea. Suppose we move me to offensive tackle and give you the starting job at running back?”
“You know, that might work.”
I whirled around and gave him a scorching glare. “Just as I suspected. There’s nothing wrong with your leg. Get off your lazy duff, and let’s go out there and win a big one for the ranch.”
“Well, okay, if you think . . .” His eyes popped wide open and he pointed at something behind me. “Oh my gosh . . . it’s THEM!”
Huh? Them? I whirled to the right and went into my karate stance, expecting to see a whole herd of cannibals coming at me with flashing teeth. What I saw was a whole herd of wild turkeys, clucking and pecking down along the creek.
<
br /> “False alarm, Drover, it’s just . . .” He had vanished. “Drover?” All that remained was a small cloud of dust above the spot where he had been sitting. “Drover! Come back here! I’m giving you a direct order! Okay, pal, if you’re not back here in two minutes, you’re off the team!”
From somewhere in the distance, I heard a faint cry. “Oh, my leg! Oh, the guilt!”
I couldn’t believe it. Yes, I could. It was exactly what you’d expect from an ungrateful, unpatriotic, quivering little gold-bricker. I’d given him the opportunity of a lifetime, a starting position on the ranch’s team, but instead of seizing the opportunity . . .
Oh well, I didn’t need him anyway. I’d be better off without him. It was only a short two-mile hike over to the lake, and maybe I wouldn’t run into the Coyote Brotherhood. Sure, they often hung out under the shade of the cottonwoods along the creek, but maybe today . . . gulp.
I raised my voice to a shout. “Okay, Drover, I’ve decided to reshuffle the starting lineup. Come back and we’ll try you at running back. What an opportunity, huh?”
I cocked my ear and listened. Not a sound. No doubt he had already burrowed into the deepest, darkest corner of the machine shed and nothing less than a bulldozer could have pulled him out.
I turned my gaze to the west. Well, I would have to make this journey all alone, without an offensive line. Was I scared? Not at all. Okay, let’s put it this way. Any dog in his right mind would be worried about making such a journey, so yes, I felt some concern.
To be honest, I felt pretty nervous about it, but you know what drove me onward? The picture in my mind, the glowing picture, of my beloved Sardina Bandana waving good-bye as tears splashed down her cheeks. That’s the kind of vision that drives a dog to endure all kinds of danger and hardship.
Even so, there was little room for mistakes or miscalculations. Even a tiny error in navigation could land me into a confrontation with bloodthirsty cannibals and, well, we certainly didn’t need that. I would have to plot my strategy down to the tiniest dovetails.
Would you be interested in seeing my plan? It’s Highly Classified information but maybe it wouldn’t hurt if we gave you a little peek.
The Case of the Most Ancient Bone Page 8