I still haven’t gotten to the part about how I found a home here on Loper and Sally May’s ranch, but I’m working my way in that direction.
Anyway, Alfred’s train track is too big to keep in the house all the time, so they store it in the machine shed. I know every square inch of that machine shed and everything inside it. That’s where I go when life becomes unbearable, which happens fairly often.
Sometimes it’s caused by a major event: a storm with lots of thunder and lightning; a can of hair spray blowing up in the garbage barrel when the cowboys burn trash; Hank getting in trouble with Sally May and getting flogged by her broom.
That happens pretty often around here, Hank getting crossways with Sally May. She’s a nice lady and I get along with her, but she and Hank . . . wow. They strike sparks. If you ask me, getting along with Sally May isn’t all that hard. She has her rules and all you have to do is follow them.
1.Stay out of her yard and leave her flowers alone.
2.Don’t lick her on the ankles. She hates that.
3.If you get sick and throw up, don’t eat it again while she’s around. It really grosses her out.
4.Don’t wet on her car tires. The cowboys don’t care if we mark their pickup tires. They don’t even notice, but Sally May always notices and it always makes her mad.
5.Don’t pick fights with her cat. Hank thinks Pete’s a little sneak and most of the time he’s right about that, but being right and winning don’t always happen at the same time around here.
Hank doesn’t follow Sally May’s rules and he gets in trouble every time—not every other time, but every time. He never seems to learn, but I have that problem myself, so who am I to talk? Does it have something to do with being a dog? I’ve wondered about that.
Anyway, I hide in the machine shed to get away from explosions, arguments, loud noises, and things that are scary. But sometimes I go there for other reasons, like feeling guilty.
I spend a lot of time feeling guilty and it really drags me down. I get to thinking about all the things I could be and should be . . . and would be, if it wasn’t so much trouble, and boy howdy, the guilt just starts piling up.
It bothers me that I’m not as brave as I ought to be. That’s a real problem when you’re supposed to be guarding a ranch. I worry about that a lot, and I don’t know how many times I’ve made the decision to work on my courage.
The trouble is that working on a problem is work and . . . well, I get tired and discouraged and the old leg starts to throb, and before I know it, I’m just eaten up with guilt.
But there’s always hope and help in the machine shed, and a couple of hours in there usually takes care of it. Sometimes it takes longer, but for ordinary guilt attacks, two hours will fix me up. Then I can go right back to doing what I always dreamed of doing: not much.
But maybe I’d better get back to the story. We’re fixing to come to the exciting part. I can hardly wait.
Chapter Train Tracks: The Exciting Part
Mom was right. One of the neighbors called the dogcatcher on me. Boy, was that a shock. Here’s what happened.
There I was out in the alley, moaning and howling, when all at once a pickup stopped right beside me. I didn’t think anything about it, but this man stepped out and came toward me, holding a net with a wooden handle.
I thought maybe he was collecting butterflies. Some people do that. Why not? They’re pretty. I enjoy looking at butterflies myself.
I stopped moaning and gave him a friendly smile, as if to say, “Oh hi. Looking for butterflies? I saw one yesterday, yellow with black spots.”
As he came closer, I noticed that he looked pretty serious. If a guy was out catching butterflies, he’d be having fun. He wasn’t having fun, and it was the middle of the night. It didn’t add up.
He raised the net over his head and swung. I seemed to be right in the way, so I jumped and gave him another friendly smile that said, “Hey, you almost caught me instead of the butterfly.”
He raised the net and swung again, and I really had to scramble to get out of the way. It seemed to make him mad and he yelled, “Hold still, will you!”
Hold still? Was he talking to the butterfly or me? I glanced around and didn’t see any butterflies. Just then, I heard Mom’s voice through the fence. “Drover? What’s all the noise out there?”
“Oh, hi, Mom. Well, there’s a man out here catching butterflies and I’m trying to help.”
WHOP! I jumped out of the way of the net.
Mom said, “What makes you think he’s trying to catch butterflies?”
“Well, he’s got a net and what else would he be doing?”
WHOP!
“Ninny! I tried to warn you. That’s the dogcatcher, and he’s trying to catch you!”
“Me?” WHOP! “Hey Mom, what if he catches me? What then?”
“He’ll take you to Devil’s Island for Dogs.”
“Devil’s Island? That doesn’t sound good.”
“That’s why I told you to quit making all that racket, but do you ever listen to your mother? No. Now look at you!”
WHOP!
“Hey Mom, I think he’s serious. What should I do?”
She raised her voice to a screech. “What do you think you should do? Run!”
“Yeah, but this leg . . .”
“Stop yapping and run!”
You know, it was kind of a miracle. All at once the pain that had tormented me for so many days and weeks just floated away, and I was running like a silver streak down the alley. Deep inside, I felt that I could keep it up for, oh, fifty yards before the leg went out again.
But yipes, the dogcatcher didn’t quit after fifty yards. He stayed right on my tail, swinging the net and yelling about all the terrible things he was going to do when he caught me, and somehow that inspired me to keep chugging along. Lucky for me, the old leg stayed with me.
I kept thinking he’d get tired and quit, but on and on we went—down the alley, up a street, and down another alley. Before long, I was lost—lost and scared and worn out. I couldn’t go another step. I figured this was IT, I was cooked.
That’s when I heard a mysterious voice. It came out of nowhere and said, “Drover, is that you?”
I looked all around and didn’t see anyone . . . well, I saw the dogcatcher coming down the alley. He looked as tired as me—hair down in his face, puffing for air, dragging his net, and very mad, but still coming toward me. The voice I’d heard hadn’t come from him.
You know, in a lot of stories, when the main character gets into trouble and things are looking dark, he runs into a Mysterious Stranger who pops up out of nowhere and rescues him from danger. Did you notice that “stranger” rhymes with “danger”? It does and sometimes that’s an important sign.
So I said, “Hello, voice? You must be a Mysterious Stranger. Listen, my mother locked me out of the yard, and there’s an angry dogcatcher coming after me and I really need to be rescued.”
“Drover, is that you?”
“Yes, but I can’t believe you know my name. This is really magic!”
“It’s not magic.”
“Yeah, but you knew my name and you can’t even see me.”
“I’m your mother.”
I looked closer at the yard fence and realized that I’d gone in a big circle. “Mom? It’s really you? Can we talk?”
“We’ve talked! How much talk does it take?”
“Well, this time it’s kind of important. Do you want your son to be a jailbird? The dogcatcher’s after me.”
She let out a groan. “All right, one more time.”
She moved the board. I dived into the tunnel and came up inside the yard, then held my breath and hoped that the dogcatcher hadn’t seen me. His footsteps went past and down the alley.
I almost fainted with relief. “Thanks, Mo
m. Gee, it’s great to be back home.”
“One night, that’s it, no more.”
“Thanks, Mom, you won’t regret this.”
“I already do. Go to bed. Sleep. Tomorrow, you’re gone.”
“Good night, Mom.”
“I can’t believe this.”
The next morning she came to wake me up but couldn’t find me. Hee hee. It was a big yard and I was hiding in a shrub. She thought I’d gotten myself out of bed and gone off to look for a job. She was so proud, I didn’t have the heart to show myself.
It was pretty awkward, to tell you the truth, and it got worse with every passing day. I stayed hidden during the day and came out at night to eat. She began to notice the empty dog food bowl. “Did I eat all that? I’m going to be as big as a house.”
But then she started getting suspicious and thought some of the neighborhood cats were stealing her food. I kind of played along with that. After I was done eating, I’d meow like a cat and it sure worked. Hee hee.
But then she caught me hiding in the bush. Boy, she threw a fit. “You again!”
“Hi Mom. Surprise.”
“You’re not a cat.”
“Thanks, and neither are you.”
“Hush. I thought you left days ago.”
“Well, I almost did, but it seemed like a lot of trouble.”
“I’ll show you trouble.” She stuck her nose in my face. “Out. Now. Go find a job.”
“So sudden?”
“This isn’t sudden. It’s been going on for months. Go!”
With a heavy heart, I made my way to the tunnel under the fence. I’d used up all my tricks, and it appeared that I was really getting kicked out this time. Only she took her eyes off me for a couple of seconds, and I hid behind a wheelbarrow when she wasn’t looking. Hee hee. It was pretty sneaky.
For a couple of days I hid behind the wheelbarrow. I had plenty of time to think about the future and getting a job and all that other stuff, and I even composed a song about it. No fooling. I think it was pretty good. You want to hear it?
I Have No Ambition
I have no ambition.
I’m not on a mission.
I’d rather go fishin’
Than look for a job.
But Mother’s a cheapskate
And now she is irate.
She thinks I’ll be jail bait
If I’m unemployed.
I think I will throw up,
I don’t want to grow up,
I don’t want to show up
For job interviews.
My life would be easier
With nothing but leisure.
I never will please her,
So what is the point?
She thinks I’m a bum.
I know that it’s dumb.
I’m sucking my thumb
And trying to hide.
I’d rather stay home
And sit like a stone
Or chew on a bone
Or sleep in the shade.
Nobody would hire me.
I’m sure they would fire me.
The effort would tire me
And stir up my leg.
There’s no sense in wishin’
For nuclear fission.
I have no ambition,
So leave me alone.
Chapter Nine: The Bat
That’s the best song I ever wrote. It really gets deep into my heart and soul, but I probably shouldn’t have sung it so loud. Mom heard me and found my hiding place, and she really blew a gasket. She screamed so loud, she started coughing and couldn’t scream any more, or even talk, so she moved out of the yard and started staying on the front porch, and I had the whole backyard to myself.
The weather had been hot and dry for weeks, and one afternoon the temperature climbed up around a hundred thousand degrees. Maybe it was just a hundred degrees, but it felt like a hundred thousand. A locust droned in a tree, and heat waves danced on the horizon, and there wasn’t a breath of wind.
It was around the middle of August, and every dog in town had crawled into the shade of a bush. Nothing moved or stirred in the awful heat. I was shaded up beneath some morning-glory vines, panting in the heat and listening to the water dripping off my tongue.
I was thirsty and could see the little goldfish pond on the other side of the yard, but I couldn’t work up the energy to jack myself up, walk all the way over to it, and lap some water. It seemed like a lot of trouble, way too much trouble on such a hot day.
All at once a bird fell out of a tree and landed in the yard. That seemed pretty strange. Birds don’t fall out of trees very often, so I watched. This was a funny-looking bird. He had wings but no feathers. I’d never seen a naked bird before.
He pushed himself up off the ground, gave his head a shake, and blinked his eyes. He saw the little pond and started walking toward it, dragging his wings.
Most dogs would have barked. Most dogs don’t allow birds in their yards. Me? I didn’t give a rip. I was so hot, I didn’t care.
He staggered up to the pond, raised a wing above his head, and shouted in a squeaky little voice, “Oh yes! The Colorado River!” Then he stumbled and fell face-first into the pond.
I waited for him to swim or climb out of the pond, but all he did was thrash and squeak. I thought to myself, “This can’t be good. Birds need air, like the rest of us. If he doesn’t do something, he’s going to drown.”
I even gave a thought to helping him, but, well, it was his life. If he wanted to drown himself in the pond, that was his business. We had about a billion birds in Twitchell, and losing one of them wouldn’t exactly be a tragedy.
But I couldn’t just sit there. I had to do something. I struggled to my feet and walked out into the glare of the sun. Finally I reached the pond. It just about wore me out. I reached a paw into the water and scooped him out and set him on the ground.
There he lay, gasping and sputtering and flopping his wings. That was some kind of ugly bird. Like I said, no feathers . . . and, my gosh, he had huge ears and a pug nose and . . . that was no bird.
It was a BAT!
I didn’t hang around. Bats and I have nothing to say to each other. I don’t like bats. I’m scared of bats. They drink blood.
I ran for the shrubs and took cover, waited fifteen minutes and figured he’d left. I peeked around my shoulder and almost fainted.
HE’D FOLLOWED ME TO THE BUSH AND WAS STANDING THERE, LOOKING INSIDE!!
I wiggled myself deeper into the undergrowth. That’s when I heard his voice: “You in there? Yoo-hoo? Come out, we need to talk.”
“You can’t see me. I’m hidden.”
“You’re hidden, but I see you anyway.”
“Bats can’t see. I’ve heard about you guys—Halloween, witches, black cats, vampires, and ‘blind as a bat.’ Go away.”
“We’re not exactly blind, just a little nearsighted.”
“So nearsighted that you walked right into a pond and almost drowned yourself.”
“Look, George, it was an accident. I was about to die for a drink.”
“Yeah, and you almost did, too. And my name’s not George.”
“Can we discuss this?”
“No. I don’t associate with bats. My reputation around here is bad enough as it is.”
He squeaked a little laugh. “Your reputation is ‘bat’ enough. Hee hee. I like that.”
“Well, I don’t like it, and it’s not funny.”
“Sorry. You’re awfully sensitive.”
“Who wouldn’t be sensitive? Everybody thinks I’m a chickenhearted little mutt. If they saw me talking to you, they’d say I was batty.”
“You’re a chickenhearted little mutt?”
“Yeah, and I hate it.”
“Hm
mm. Bad deal. Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t need help from a bat. Just go away.”
He said no more and I figured he took the hint and left. After waiting half an hour, I crawled out of the bush . . . and found him hanging upside-down from a branch. I was too surprised to speak.
He winked and grinned. “I figured you’d come out sooner or later. Ready to talk?” I darted back inside the bush and tried to hide. He followed me. “George, we have to talk, whether you like it or not.”
“Go away.”
“See, you saved my life.”
“I’m sorry, it was an accident.”
“Now I’m honor-bound to serve you. What do think of that, huh?”
I twisted my head around and stared at the ugly little creep. “Serve me? What does that mean?”
He propped himself up on one wing and let his gaze drift around. “Well, it’s an old bat tradition. You saved my life so I’m honor-bound to return the favor. I have no choice.”
“I don’t want a favor, and if I did, I wouldn’t want it from a bat.”
He shrugged. “We hear this all the time. What’s wrong with bats? I don’t get it.”
“Everything’s wrong with bats. You’re creepy.”
“That’s what they say, but you know, I don’t feel creepy. I feel like a normal, healthy American bat.”
“You’re creepy.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. I have to do you a good deed, whether you like it or not. I’m Boris O’Bat, your faithful servant.”
I edged toward him and offered a paw for him to shake. “I’m Drover. Nice to meet you . . . I guess.” He reached out his wing but missed my paw. Like he’d said, he couldn’t see very well.
“Okay, Drover, what can I do for you? Anything, just name it.”
Well, what do you say to a bat? I told him the whole sad story about my cruel mother who wanted to throw me out of the yard and force me into honest work. When I was done, he gave his little shoulders a shrug. “Your mother’s right. You need to leave home and find a job.”
“Yeah, but I’m kind of short on ambition.”
Drover's Secret Life Page 3