The Mopwater Files

by John R. Erickson

  You’ll notice that Slim and Loper were nowhere in sight. Bring out a shovel or a rake and those guys disappear. It’s like showing a cross to an umpire.

  They vanish like dewdrops in August.

  But there was Sally May, working and slaving in the hot sun; digging holes and planting tender little shrubberies and flowers around the yard fence. And what was the mainest threat to her tender little shrubberies and flowers and plants?

  Grasshoppers.

  You work and slave to put out your stuff, and the minute you walk away, the grasshoppers move in and start mowing ’em down. They’re a plague, a pestilence, a minutes to society, and they’ve been known to break the heart of many a courageous ranch wife.

  As Head of Ranch Security, I considered it my duty—nay, my privilege—to rush to the defense of my master’s wife and to protect her yard and greenery from all villains, monsters, and pests.

  And especially the hated grasshoppers.

  I was the first to arrive on the scene. I did a quick visual sweep and . . . hmmm, there was her cat lurking nearby. When our eyes met, he arched his back and hissed.

  Why? It had nothing to do with fear. Pete wasn’t smart enough to be afraid of a dog. No, he hissed out of sheer spite and jealousy. See, he thinks he’s Sally May’s precious kitty and he can’t stand the thought of sharing her attention with anyone else.

  So he hissed at me. Perhaps he thought this would throw me into an inflammation; that I would bark and give him the pounding he deserved, and that Sally May would rush to his defense.

  He thought, in other words, that he could use a cheap cat trick to get me in trouble with the lady of the house, but Pete had used that trick too often in the past and it happened that I was prepared for it.

  Hencely, instead of barking and causing a scene, I gave him a, shall we say, toothy smile. I thought that would be the end of it. I was wrong. It turned out to be just the beginning.

  Chapter Three: I’m Forced to Humble the Cat

  “Hi Kitty. It’s so nice to see you again.”

  “I don’t think you mean that, Hankie.”

  “Of course I mean it. A day without a cat is like a picnic without flies—imperfect and incom­plete.”

  “Very funny, Hankie, but I think you’d better move along. I’m helping Sally May plant flowers and we don’t need you blundering around.”

  Drover had joined me by then and I turned to him. “Hey Drover, did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Pete just informed me that he’s helping Sally May.”

  “I’ll be derned. What a nice kitty.”

  “You missed the point, Drover. It was a stupid statement and a typical cat lie. Cats never help anyone but themselves.”

  “Oh yeah. Boy, what a stapid stutement.”

  “Exactly. Have you ever heard a stapider stute­ment in your life?”

  “Well . . . what’s a stutement?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Drover, please. I’m trying to build my case against this cat. It’s very simple. It’s very easy. All you have to do is give the correct answer, which is no.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, so now you’re refusing to obey orders, is that right? I’ve been noticing this little rebellious streak in you, Drover, and I can tell you that it’s going to cause you nothing but trouble.”

  “I just gave you the right answer, that’s all. You said the answer was no and I said no.”

  “Oh. Well, perhaps . . .” I whirled around and faced the cat. He had moved. I marched over to him. “There, you see, Pete? An impartial panel of two dogs agrees that your studer was stapled and . . .” Suddenly I had lost the thread of my argu­ment. I whirled back to Drover. “Drover, what was the point we were trying to make?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know. I’m all confused. Some­thing about grasshoppers, I think.”

  “Yes, of course.” I whirled back to the cat. “You see, Kitty, if you were really and truly trying to help Sally May with her planting chores, you would be catching grasshoppers.”

  The cat stared at me with those weird eyes of his. “Oh really? Why would I be catching grass­hoppers?”

  “Because, Kitty, grasshoppers are the sworn ene­mies of every ranch wife, because grasshoppers eat plants and flowers and shrubberies.”

  “How interesting! The only problem, Hankie, is that grasshoppers can make you choke—the back legs, you know. They hang up in your throat sometimes.” Drover and I exchanged glances. Then we started laughing.

  “Hey Drover, did you hear that?”

  “Yeah, hee hee. I can’t believe he said that. What a stapid stutement. He doesn’t know that we eat grasshoppers all the time, does he?”

  I whirled back to the cat. “For your information, Kitty, we eat grasshoppers all the time. Not only do we rid the ranch of these miserable pests, but we also increase our intake of protein and save the ranch money on dog food. And do we look choked, Pete? Are we coughing and gasping for breath? Ha! So much for your phoney argument.”

  Drover was jumping up and down. “Nice shot, Hank, nice shot! Boy, you really got him on that one.”

  “Thanks, Drover, but I’m just getting warmed up.” I leaned forward and put my nose in Kitty’s face. “Your problem with grasshoppers, Pete, is that you’re too fat and lazy to catch one.”

  Pete grinned and rolled his eyes. “Oh really? And I suppose you’re going to show me how it’s done, hmmm?”

  I gave Drover a wink. “He just stepped into our trap, Drover.”

  “Yeah, boy, we’ve got him now!”

  Back to the cat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, Kitty, that’s exactly what we’re fixing to do. Before your very eyes, we will put on a live demonstration of Doggie Pest Control. Pay attention and study your lessons.”

  He grinned and widened his eyes. “Oh, I will, I will. I can hardly wait to see this.”

  I turned to Drover. “Okay, pal, which one of us will lead off?”

  “Oh, I guess I could, since I know more about it than you do.”

  There was a moment of silence. “I can’t believe you said that, Drover.”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “See, you’ve done it but I’ve studied it. I’ve studied it from all angles, the ups and the downs and the sidewayses of it.”

  “Yeah but . . .”

  “You may know a little more about the simple act of catching grasshoppers, but I’m much farther advanced in the theoretical aspects of pest control.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  “See, you’ve got to have a plan and a theory, Drover. You can’t just go out and pounce on a grass­hopper.”

  “Boy, it sure is complicated.”

  I placed a paw on his shoulder. “It is, and I’m afraid I’ll have to handle this one myself. Work a little harder on the theoretical side and maybe next time we’ll let you go first.”

  With that, I went into my warm-up procedures and began loosening up the enormous muscles in my shoulders. Those big muscles up front are the ones you use in these situations—the jumpus muscle and the semi-lateral boogaloo, if you want to get into the scientific names.

  Anyway, I got ’em warmed up and ready for combat. Then I tossed a glance over at Sally May. She was on her knees, digging in the dirt with a hand trowel. Beside her, several feet away, was a bucket of . . . something.

  Water, it appeared, yes, it was water because she poured some of it around the roots of the plant she was planting.

  Well, she seemed deeply involved in her planting business and hadn’t noticed me, so I went over to, well, wish her a good morning and to alert her to the fact that something important was fixing to happen.

  I approached her with a big cowdog smile and Broad Swings of the tail. It was lousy luck that I stepped on one of her . . . posies, pansies, petunias, whatever they were . . . stepped on
one of her flowers.

  And, okay, maybe one of my Broad Swings went a little wild and knocked over a potted plant . . . two potted plants . . . several potted plants, and more or less whipped the straw hat off her head.

  Boy, you sure have to watch those Broad Swings of the tail. Sometimes they’re so full of joy and emotion, they get out of control and . . .

  My goodness, she whirled on me with flared nostrils and flaming eyes. “Will you take your wash­tub feet and whiplash tail and GET AWAY FROM ME!!!”

  Well, sure. I mean, I was just trying to . . . hey, I could take a hint, and yes, I moved away from her.

  Sally May can be a little strange sometimes.

  But the important thing was that I had made her aware of my presence on the scene, and now I was ready to begin the Pest Control Procedure.

  I wanted her to see the whole thing. I knew she would be proud. And I knew she would regret the hateful things she had said.

  I didn’t have “washtub feet” and I sure hadn’t given her “whiplash” with my tail.

  Those were Broad Swings of the tail, and they’re meant to show friendship and caring and love and devotion.

  Sometimes you can’t avoid misunderstanding, no matter how hard you try.

  A big heart is no match for a small mind . . . although I would be the last to suggest that Sally May had . . . better quit while I’m ahead.

  Well, it was Show Time. Everyone was watching me—Pete, Drover, Sally . . . okay, maybe she wasn’t exactly watching me, but I was confident that I would grab her attention when the action started.

  And you know who else showed up? J. T. Cluck, the Head Rooster. Say, this event was really drawing a crowd, which didn’t exactly break my heart. I must confess that I kind of enjoy showing my stuff to an audience, and the bigger the audience the better the performance.

  J.T. peered at me and twisted his head around. “What’s a-going on around here?”

  “Stand back, J.T. I’m fixing to give a public demonstration of Grasshopper Capturation.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that if you will get your feathers out of the way, I will demonstrate the theory and technique of capturing grasshoppers.”

  “Huh! What does a dog know about catchin’ grasshoppers? If you want to know about grass­hoppers, talk to a rooster. That’s what we do for a living, is what we do.”

  “Would you move?”

  “Huh? Of course they move. They don’t just sit there. They hop. That’s why they’re called grass­hoppers. And I’ll tell you something else, pooch. They’re hard to swaller. You know them back legs? They scrape all the way down and if you ain’t real careful, you’ll choke, is what’ll happen.”

  “Thank you, J.T. Now, if you’ll just . . .”

  “Happened to Elsa’s brother’s uncle. What was his name? Oh yeah, they called him Red. He was red, see, the reddest darn rooster you ever saw. Had green tail feathers.”

  “J.T.”

  “Choked on a grasshopper one day is what he done, and died.”

  I stuck my nose in his face and rattled his beak with a ferocious bark. “MOVE!”

  Heh, heh. That got his attention. He jumped three feet into the air, flapped and squawked, and left several feathers floating in the breeze. And best of all, he shut his beak and moved out of the way.

  Never argue with a rooster, I always say. Just go straight to the bottom line and give ’em a blast.

  At last I was ready.

  Chapter Four: Grasshoppers Taste Yucko

  I did a Visual and Sniffatory Scan of the gravel drive. My instruments zeroed in on a target, bearing 197 degrees and 5.773 megawatts west of the yard gate. It was a smallish green hopper, of the Omega Class.

  I shifted into Stealthy Crouch Mode and . . .

  “There’s a nice little one over there, Hank. See him? You probably ought to start with a little one.”

  That was Drover. His voice not only broke my concentration but it also alerted the grasshopper to my approach. He hopped away. The grasshopper, that is, not Drover.

  I marched over to him. To Drover, that is, not the grasshopper. “Drover, hush.”

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “I know you were trying to help, but don’t. Just watch and learn and prepare yourself for the day when you too can catch grasshoppers.”

  He gave me an empty stare. “I thought I knew how. I thought you were the one . . . boy, I’m all confused.” Suddenly his eyes grew wide. “Oh my gosh, there’s a huge one!”

  My laser-like gaze swung around and fixated on the alleged “huge one.” By George, he was huge (of the Alfalfa Beta Big Boy Class, if you’re familiar with the military terminology). He was one of those big green hoppers that can’t fly and don’t even hop very well because they’re so fat.

  Not only are they an easy mark, but they’re also rich in protein, vitamins, minerals, and rigamaroles. In other words, they’re the very best kind for restoring youth and energy.

  Speaking of which, I was running low. I could feel my precious reserves of energy ebbing away. I had to hurry.

  “This could be the one, Drover.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know. He’s awful big.”

  I gave him a worldly smile. “So am I, Drover. Watch this.”

  And with that, I switched all scanning devices over to automatic and shifted into Attack Mode. For those of you interested in the technical aspects, I made this approach at three knots, with ears at three-quarters alert and a stiffened tail at 22 degrees.

  That’s sounds pretty complicated, doesn’t it? A lot of dogs wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble for a mere grasshopper. I mean, they would have just slopped and slouched in there, but I take pride in my work. No job is too small to be little, is the way I look at it.

  And besides, this was no ordinary grasshopper. His Hopping Molecules were going to restore my youthful vigor.

  I crept forward on paws that made not a sound—nose out, tail out, and ears up. The audience was silent. Every eye was locked on the unfolding drama. I could almost feel the tension. Then . . . a voice. Sally May’s voice.

  “What on earth is that dog doing now?”

  Good. She was watching. I hoped she would realize that I was doing this to save her precious tender shrubberies and flowers from the Grass­hopper Plague.

  Yes, we’d had our ups and downs, Sally May and I, and more than our share of misunderstandings. But perhaps this selfless act of selfless devotion would make up for whatever tiny mistakes I’d made in the past.

  I crept toward the target on paws that made . . . I’ve already said that. Five feet away from Ground Zero, I halted, shifted my weight to a point directly over my powerful hind legs, went into a 75% crouch, tensed every muscle in my body, and took a deep breath of . . . well, air of course.

  I cast one last glance toward the audience. Not a single eye blinked. I had their total concentration. And yes, even Sally May was watching.

  My gaze swung back to the target. It was time. All my years of study and training had come down to this one moment. I dared not fail.

  Suddenly I exploded outward and upward—like a rocket, an artillery shell, an arrow seeking its target. My front paws landed first, as you might have guessed, and trapped the hateful grass­hopper villain. I could feel him kicking and trying to escape, but there was no chance of that.

  I heard Drover cheering me on. “You got ’im, Hank! Nice shot, way to go!”

  I lifted my left paw and there he was, a huge, green, hateful, yard-eating grasshopper. “This one’s for Sally May!” I yelled, and swept him up in my powerful jaws.

  Crunch. Crunch. Gulp. Yes! The deed was done.

  I turned and faced the audience. Drover was jumping up and down. Pete wore a sour smile. J.T. had his head twisted, as though he hadn’t really figured out what had
happened.

  And Sally May . . . her eyes were shining in purest admiration and I heard her exclaim, “Did he just eat a grasshopper?”

  Heh, heh. You bet, and I’d done it all just for . . . that grasshopper didn’t taste much like chicken to me, and the longer the taste lingered in my mouth, the lesser it reminded me of chicken . . . or anything else I’d ever wanted to eat.

  To tell the truth, it reminded me of . . . yucko!. . . green slime and old chewing tobacco and brussels sprout juice and . . .

  I lifted my lips and moved my tongue around, in hopes of cleansing my mouth of . . . THAT THING TASTED HORRIBLE! What did grass­hoppers eat to give themselves such a wretched . . . garbage, rotten stinking garbage, that’s what they ate, and what kind of moron would think that this was the taste of CHICKEN?

  Oh, what a fool I’d been, to believe anything that Drover . . . I swallowed extra hard to get the awful green garbage taste out of my . . . GULK, WHEEZE, ARG . . . mouth, but now it appeared that something had lodged in my . . . HARK, HACK, HONK . . . throat.

  And fellers, all at once I could neither swallow nor draw a breath of . . . I pawed at my mouth. No luck there. I opened my mouth and fluttered my tongue around.

  Holy smokes, my oxygen supply was running low! I leaped into the air. I ran in a circle, using up the last of my energy supply.

  I could hear my body making incredible sounds as it fought to rid itself of . . . whatever it was . . . grasshopper legs, no doubt, with their barbs and spurs, and I had known all along . . . I had told Drover . . .

  Water! I had to find some water! My desperate eyes fell upon the red bucket that Sally May had been using. I lurched over to it, stuck my head inside, and began lapping water with all my heart and soul.

  Ah-h-h-h! Sweet relief! The lump of poisonous grasshopper legs passed on down my whatever-you-call-it, the pipe that goes from your mouth to your stomach, and I hoped the old stomach was ready for what was about to hit.