“That’s right. I hate ’em.”
“Honey bun.”
There was a long moment of silence. Then, “Are you trying to be funny or are you just stupid?”
“No, every time I see Beulah’s lovely face, I think of honey buns. Odd, isn’t it?”
“I ought to knock your block off. Don’t ever say ‘honey bun’ to my honey bun.”
“Oh, she’s yours, huh?”
“Right.” He turned to Beulah. “Aren’t you, Honey Bun?” She turned away and didn’t answer. He laughed. “She’s crazy about me, and even if she ain’t, that’s too bad. She’s mine, so butt out before you get hurt. You got that?”
“Nope.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“Rufus, there’s something we need to discuss. I don’t like you.”
A grin spread over his mouth. “Yeah? That’s nice.”
“And it’s not just because you have the ugliest face I ever saw.” His smile began to wilt. “You can’t help it that you’re ugly and stupid. What I don’t like is that you’re rude.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Uh-huh. And you’re being rude to a lady friend of mine—on my ranch. That’s not very nice.”
“Big deal.”
“If you’ll apologize to Beulah and promise to be a good little doggie for the rest of your life, I’ll forget the whole thing.”
“You must be crazy.”
“If you aren’t dog enough to apologize to the lady, I’ll be forced to thrash you right here in front of everyone. It’s up to you.”
Beulah stared at me with terror-stricken eyes. Plato was shaking his head and wheezing and trying to motion me to be quiet.
Rufus leaned over the tailgate and narrowed his ugly bloodshot eyes. “Say, bub, I beat up cowdogs just for exercise, and then I move on to the tough guys. Be kind to yourself and get lost.”
“Honey bun.”
There was a long throbbing moment of silence as we glared into each other’s eyes. Plato couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Settle down, Rufus, easy now. Hank has a great sense of humor but sometimes . . .”
“Shut up. Get back in your corner.”
“Right, okay, but let me emphasize . . .”
“Shut up!”
Plato did as he was told. Rufus’s terrible eyes swung back to me. “Where would you like your whipping, up here in the pickup or down there on the ground?”
“Tell you what, Rufe, let me get a drink of water and I’ll think about it. Don’t go away.”
As I turned to leave, I heard him laugh. “Wave good-bye to your hero. He won’t be back.”
I trotted down to the yard gate. Heh, heh. Little did old Rufus know that I had a secret weapon. Heh, heh. A couple of slurps of root stimulator and . . .
The bucket was gone!
Chapter Seven: Poisoned by Mopwater
Cold fear began working its way down my back and out to the end of my tail. Behind me, I heard Rufus laughing and calling out insults.
“Hurry up, Hero. I’m gettin’ bored.”
Gulp. Now what? Who had moved my bucket? Where did it go? My eyes searched the entire backyard area. I could feel my reserves of energy slipping away, and all at once I became aware of the heat. It was so hot!
I had to find the bucket. My reputation, my whole career was at stake because . . . holy smokes, I had just spent the last fifteen minutes mouthing off to one of the meanest dogs in Texas!
I was on the brink of despair and desolation when the back door opened and Sally May stepped out on the porch. In her right hand she carried . . . the bucket. Yes, the very same bucket. I identified it at once.
She set it down on the porch. Boy, what a relief! There for a minute, I had feared the worst, that she had poured out my supply of precious root stimulator and wasted it on a bunch of idiot plants.
But there it was, safe and sound, and now all I had to do . . . mop? Why was she dipping a mop into my . . .
And then the terrible truth came crashing down upon my head. She had poured out my Precious Root Stimulator and was using the container as a MOP BUCKET!
Oh, what a cruel fate, to be brought down in the prime of my life by a mop!
“Hurry up, cowdog. We’re waiting.”
Sally May squeezed out the mop with both hands and went back into the house. She left the bucket on the porch. I found myself . . . staring at it.
It was the same bucket I had drunk out of before, right? It contained mopwater instead of root stimulator, but both were liquids, composed primarily of water, which means they were very similar.
If root stimulator and mopwater were very similar, then perhaps they were almost the same. Who would know the difference? Not a plant. Not a mop.
I mean, the little cotton strands on a mop were almost identical to the roots on a plant. Both were long and stringy, both extended downward, both were attached to a longer stalk or stick, which extended upward.
Hencely, by following the twisted path of logic, I had arrived at the startling conclusion that mopwater and root stimulator were exactly the same stuff, which meant that mopwater would restore my reserves of energy just as the plant food had.
Gee whiz, what a breakthrough, what a triumph of scientific thinking over the rubble of ordinary experience.
Only one small problem remained, and it was only a small problem. I would have to make a penetration of Sally May’s yard. That was no big deal. I’d done it before, many times, and though it posed certain risks, I knew I could do it—because I HAD to do it.
“Hey cowdog, snap it up, will ya?”
I coiled my legs under me and went flying over the yard fence. I landed on silent paws, stopped in my tracks, and listened. I could hear Sally May’s voice inside the house. She seemed to be discussing something with Little Alfred . . . yes, they were discussing spilled milk.
She would never know that I had broken into her yard and borrowed some, uh, Mop Stimulator.
I crept forward. Two steps. Stop. Listen. Three steps. Stop. Listen. Four steps. And suddenly I was there, standing on the porch with the bucket looming before me.
I shot glances over both shoulders, plunged my head into the bucket, and began lapping the . . . stuff tasted pretty awful, but it’s common knowledge that good medicine always tastes bad, and . . .
BONK!
Who would have thought that she would finish her mopping and spilled milk lecture so soon? Not me. I was totally shocked when the screen door flew open and struck me on the left shoulder, and it appeared that I had been caught with my head in the, uh, cookie jar.
Mop bucket.
Our eyes met. I licked a drip off of my chin and tried to squeeze up a smile that would . . . uh, well . . . explain exactly what I was doing there . . . in her yard . . . on her back porch . . . in her mop bucket.
Hi Sally May. I know this looks odd—even strange—but I think I can explain everything.
She stared at me for a long throbbing moment. Then she leaned down and spoke. “You. Are Drinking. Mopwater.”
Yes, I, uh, knew that.
“And before that, you were drinking my plant food.”
Right, and there was a reason for that too. No kidding.
“What is wrong with you? Can’t you find a drink of plain water on this ranch?”
Sure, but . . .
“There’s a creek right over there and it’s full of fresh drinking water.”
Yes, I . . . I was aware of the . . . uh . . . creek.
She brought her face right down to the level of my nose. “Will you please stop behaving like a moron?”
I knew in my deepest heart that she wouldn’t approve of a mopwater kiss at that particular moment, but some strange urge caused my tongue to shoot out and give her a big juicy lick on the . . . well, on the nose-mouth region of her face.
Good grief, you’d have thought she’d been bitten by a cobra, the way she drew back. And screeched. Yes, she screeched at me, and then came the mop. Splat! Right across my face.
Well, I could take a hint. If she didn’t want me around . . . SPLAT! . . . I would just . . . SPLAT! . . . run for my life and let the chipmunks fall where they would.
I made it over the yard fence just one step ahead of the Murderous Mop and took refuge in some tall weeds. There, I heard her say, “I’ll swear, that is the dumbest dog!”
Boy, that hurt—not as much as the mop, but it opened wounds deep inside my heart and soul.
Wounds that might never heal.
She went back inside the house. She probably didn’t realize that her cutting remarks had inflicted irreruptable damage to our relationship.
And she probably didn’t even care.
“Hey cowdog, we’re waitin’.”
The sound of Rufus’s voice brought me back to the other crisis in my life. Had the mopwater done its job? I had to know the truth.
I turned to Data Control for a report on all internal systems. My heart sank as I scanned the report flashing across the screen of my mind. It showed low readings in all departments: heart rate, blood sugar, oxygen-acetylene supply, energy, ambition, and cellular phonography.
Even more disturbing was the presence of high levels of toxic mopwater in the stomach area. Burp. My poor stomach had certainly been tested: a gooey green grasshopper, root stimulator, and now mopwater.
Did I feel sick? Sure, but I didn’t have time to be sick. My career and reputation were hanging in the ballast. I had talked my way into a fight I couldn’t possibly win, yet I couldn’t walk away from it either.
Well . . . obviously it was time for a song, right? I mean, there comes a time in every dog’s life when he bursts into singing because, well, the other things he might be doing aren’t so great. Have we ever done “The Mopwater Song?” Maybe not. Here’s how it goes.
The Mopwater Song
I never should have drunk that mopwater,
Never should, never should, mopwater.
Never should have tried that mopwater.
Mopwater, slopwater, sick as a horse.
Mopwater is low in calories,
But it’s also low in taste.
It will fill your daily requirement
Of spider webs, dirt, and various wastes.
Never should have sampled yucky dirty mopwater,
Silly dog, stupid dog, mopwater.
A bellyache can come from drinking mopwater.
Belly trouble, tummy rumble, stomach upset.
If you’re preparing to fight a gorilla,
Exercise caution and stay on your toes.
If somebody says mopwater will help you,
He’s telling a lie, so punch him in the nose.
I never should have drunk that mopwater,
Never should, never should, mopwater.
Never should have tried that mopwater.
Mopwater, slopwater, sick as a horse.
Not bad, huh? I mean, for a song that I just threw together at the last moment, it was pretty derned good.
Well, I gathered my few remaining shreds of energy—boy, it was hot—and made the long trudge up the hill. There was Billy’s pickup, just where I had left it.
Rufus spotted me right away. His pointed ears shot up and a wicked sneer worked its way across his toothy mouth.
“Well! Look who’s coming back. How was the water, pal? I hope it was good, ’cause it may be the last drink you’ll ever get.”
I felt the harsh glare of the afternoon sun as I dragged myself to the rear of the pickup. I caught a glimpse of Plato and Beulah. Their eyes showed the terror of what was about to happen. They knew, just as I knew, that I was about to march into a Battle of No Return.
It had to be done. I had talked my way into this deal and I couldn’t back down. It was rotten luck that my supply of root stimulator had lasted just long enough to get me into a world of trouble, but that was life.
When you’re Head of Ranch Security, you don’t make excuses.
I jumped up into the pickup. The effort of getting there left me drained. The sun was burning me up, wilting me, sucking the energy out of my muscles and bones.
I lifted my head and looked Shark Face in the eyes. “Okay, Rufus, I guess it’s time.”
His laugh sent shivers down my spine.
Chapter Eight: Higher Duty Calls Me to Battle
You probably think that I went into deadly combat against Rufus and got myself thrashed. Or maybe you think that I thrashed him—a long shot, I’ll admit, but strange things happen in this old world.
Well, the truth is that neither happened. Rufus and I were in the Preliminary Growls Stage of the big fight when, much to my surprise and relief, Slim and Billy came walking out of the machine shed and saw us.
“Say, Slim, you’d better get old Hank out of my pickup before Rufus eats him up.”
Slim came at a run—okay, not exactly a run but maybe a trot. He reached over the tailgate, grabbed me by the tail, and began pulling me backward.
I must admit that his sudden appearance had made me feel somewhat bolder. When he began pulling me backward, I locked down all four legs, leaned toward Rufus, and added a little volume to my growling. It had kind of a nice effect, the growling plus the screech of my claws on the floor of the pickup bed.
“Well, it looks like they’ve saved you this time, Rufus. One more minute and they never would have pulled me off.”
“Ha! One more minute and they wouldn’t have found you, jerk, ’cause you’d have been sawdust.”
“You’re a big talker, Rufus, and we know you’re the champ at beating up widows and orphans, but one of these days . . .”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah? One of these days . . . what? Come on, cowdog, don’t stutter. Name the day and time.”
“Well, I . . .”
“Meet me this afternoon on the hill above my place.”
“Today? I’d have to, uh, check my . . .”
“Four o’clock. That gives you two hours to get there.”
“Well, I . . . that’s the hottest part of the day, and don’t you think . . .”
“Be there. And if you ain’t there, you’re nothing but a yella chicken and I’ll be twice as mean to your girlfriend and it’ll be your fault.”
By that time Slim had gotten a good grip on me and lifted me out of the pickup. Billy said good-bye and drove away. Rufus was sitting on his spare tire, looking like a king on his throne, while Beulah waved a sad good-bye and Plato squeezed himself deeper into his corner.
When the sounds of the motor faded in the distance, Slim looked down at me and shook his head.
“Well, you dodged a cannonball there, pooch. If I hadn’t come out just when I did, we’d be searching for your bodily parts right now.”
Yes, I . . . uh . . . realized that, although . . .
“It ain’t smart to pick fights with the heavyweight champion of the neighborhood, and some people would even say it’s dumb.” He reached down and scratched me behind the ears. “But just between us dogs, I’m kind of proud of you for thinkin’ about it. I never did care for that hateful thing. How about a little reward?”
I perked up at that. Yes, a little reward would be nice. Or even a big reward.
“I’d sure like to buy you a steak.”
A steak? That might work.
“Only I ain’t got one, so how about doubles on dog food?”
Plain old ordinary dry dog food? Gee, I had hoped . . .
“Special Deluxe Co-op Hot Rod Ration. How does that sound?”
Well, not as good as a steak but . . . Hot Rod Ration, huh? It might be all right.
We went to the machine shed.
As you may know, we dogs ate our dog food from an overturned Ford hubcap. Slim poured it full of this exotic new type of dog food and I began crunching.
I soon realized that he had been exercising his sense of humor. It was the same old stuff—hard dry kernels that tasted like a mixture of sawdust and stale grease.
I beamed him a wounded look which said, “This is it? No steak?”
“That’s the best we’ve got, pooch. Take it or leave it. Just because you had one heroic thought don’t mean you get to dine at Mrs. Astor’s table.”
Fine. I would collect my measly little reward and go on about my life. Double dog food wasn’t a steak, but it beat a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. And who was Mrs. Astor anyway?
I was crunching my way through the heap of dry tasteless kernels when Drover poked his head out of the machine shed. He glanced to the left and to the right, then came creeping out.
“Hi Hank. What you doing?”
“I’m trying to eat . . .” Crunch, crunch. “. . . petrified camel droppings.”
“I’ll be derned. It looks just like dog food to me.”
“Some people call it that.”
“Can I have a bite?”
“No.” Crunch, crunch. “By the way, Drover, where were you when the fighting broke out?”
“Well, let’s see. I guess I took a wrong turn and sort of ended up in the machine shed.”
“I see. Did it occur to you that I might need your help?”
“Oh yeah, but by the time I made it to the machine shed, this old leg was about to kill me. See?” He limped around in a circle. “Terrible pain. But I heard the whole thing.”
“What did you think?”
“I thought . . .” He looked up at the sky. “I thought you’d lost your mind and were fixing to lose your life, is what I thought.”
“As a matter of fact, Drover, that’s closer to the truth than you might suppose.” I told him the whole story about the root stimulator.
“I’ll be derned. I thought you got all that energy from the grasshopper.”
“No, the stupid grasshopper almost strangled me, thanks to you and your bonehead ideas.”
The Mopwater Files Page 4