The Case of the Vanishing Fishhook

by John R. Erickson

  “Sorry.” He licked his lips. “There, is that better?”

  “Much better. Thanks. I don’t want to be a nag, but we do have an image to protect. Now, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Oh good. I was getting kind of bored.”

  “Right. Fishing is for the birds.”

  “Yeah, and there’s several right up there.”

  “Several what?”

  He looked up to the sky. I followed his gaze and sure enough . . . “Oh yes, birds. Actually, they are hawks, Drover, a variety of raptor bird we have on this ranch.”

  “No, I think they’re buzzards.”

  I squinted my eyes and took a closer look. “Okay, maybe they’re buzzards. At first glance, the two resemble one another, but your buzzards are bigger and darker than your hawks.”

  “Maybe they ate the liver.”

  I stared at him for a long moment. “What?”

  “I said, maybe those buzzards ate the liver. That’s what they do. They fly around and look for something to eat.”

  My gaze lingered on him for several seconds, then I turned and paced several steps away from him. “Drover, there’s something here that troubles me.”

  “Yeah, I know. They shouldn’t have stolen Alfred’s bait.”

  “No, it’s even more troubling than that.” I paced back over to him. “Something very strange is going on here. You see, what you just said about the buzzards makes a certain amount of sense.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it. Making sense is good, it’s important, it’s something we try to do in the Security Business.” I stopped pacing and whirled around. “But Drover, it’s not something you do very often, which makes me just a little bit suspicious.”

  “I’ll be derned.” Just then he burped. “Oops, sorry. I guess I ate too fast.”

  “No problem. It happens even to the best of us. Now, back to what I was . . .” I froze. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, you ate too fast?”

  “Well, I guess I should have chewed up my food a little better, instead of gulping it down. When I gulp, I get indigestion. It happens every time.”

  I narrowed my eyes and studied his face. My mind was racing by this time, and I found myself sifting clues that were leading this case in an entirely new direction. Here, check this out.

  Clue #1: A package of fresh liver suddenly and mysteriously disappeared.

  Clue #2: Drover had something red on his lips, remember?

  Clue #3: Out of nowhere, Drover came up with a fairly reasonable explanation for the disappearance of the liver. (The buzzards.)

  Clue #4: Drover belched.

  Clue #5: Upon belching, he said something about “eating too fast.”

  Do you see how all these pieces began to fit together? All at once I had a prime suspect in the case, and it sure as thunder wasn’t a buzzard.

  I should have known. How could I have been such a blockhead? I was too nice, that was it, too trusting of my friend and fellow-dog, for you see . . .

  Hang on. This might come as a terrible shock.

  . . . for you see, I now had enough evidence to wrap this case up, and the evidence pointed like a flaming arrow . . . at Drover.

  I marched over to him and stuck my nose in his face. “Drover, I hate to tell you this, but there’s something fishy going on around here.”

  Drover leaped to his feet. “Yeah, Little Alfred just caught one, and I guess we’d better go help him.”

  Huh?

  Sure enough, the boy had just pulled in a big catfish.

  Chapter Ten: Disaster Strikes

  All at once, it was All Hands on Deck. People and dogs and catfish were running in all directions. Well, the people and dogs were running, but the fish was . . .

  Let’s slow down, take a deep breath, and try to get all this sorted out. It was kind of confusing, to tell you the truth, because so much was going on at once.

  First off, my interrogation of Drover came to a sudden stop, which was rotten luck because I had reached the Critical Phase and had been on the point of springing my trap on the little cheat and charging him with Liver Theft, a very serious crime on our ranch.

  But you see, at that very moment Little Alfred’s cork disappeared and he pulled in a big flapping catfish. To add even more drama to the drama, the flapping fish somehow flapped the hook out of his mouth. This occurred in midair and the fish fell to the ground.

  The boy let out a whoop of joy. Then, when he saw the fish hit the ground, he threw down his pole and started yelling at us.

  “Come on, doggies, and help me catch my fish before he jumps back in the cweek!”

  Well, you know how I am about these kids. When they put out a Distress Call, I drop everything and go straight into a Code Three situation. Drover and I arrived on the scene at approximately the same time. The fish was flopping around and edging closer to the water.

  I turned to Drover. “Well, don’t just stand there. Do something.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  “Jump in and grab the fish, what do you think?”

  “Yeah, but he’s all slimy and yucky, and what if he slaps me with his tail?”

  I pushed him aside. “Drover, you’re worthless. Oh, and by the way, I know who ate that package of liver.”

  “Yeah, it was those darned old buzzards.”

  “Not buzzards, Drover.”

  “You’d better grab the fish.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. Get out of my way. I’ll deal with you later. Watch this and study your lessons.”

  I swaggered into the situation and sized it up with one quick sweep of the eyes. It was a timing deal, see. You wait until the fish has quit flapping, then you charge in and grab him. I waited for just the right moment, then darted in and . . .

  BLAP!

  . . . the stupid fish landed a lucky punch with his tail, right on the end of my nose. No problem, no big deal. I went into a crouch, studied the pattern of the rhythm of his . . . whatever . . . his flopping maneuver, I guess you’d call it, and then I launched a second . . .

  BLAP!

  . . . and this time the stupid fish not only slapped me, but also stuck a fin into the soft leathery portion of my nose. Did it hurt? You bet it did. Have we discussed catfish fins? They are long and sharp and very dangerous, and getting stuck by a catfish fin is no cup of worms.

  I uttered a yelp of pain and backed out of the struggle. My nose throbbed and my eyes had begun to water. I turned my watering eyes towards the runt.

  “Drover, if you don’t do something, the fish is going to get away.”

  “Okay, here we go. I’ll bark at him.”

  And he did, if that’s what you want to call yipping and squeaking. I would have been ashamed to call it “barking.” He yipped and squeaked—and to no one’s surprise, kept a safe distance between himself and the fish.

  Little Alfred was getting worried. “Come on, Hankie, gwab my fish! I want to take him home and show my mom.”

  I heaved a sigh. Okay, it was down to me . . . up to me . . . the entire responsibility for the mission had fallen upon my shoulders, let us say, and I had no choice but to wade back into combat—and never mind all the slaps on the face, all the barbs in the nose.

  I waited for just the right moment, then launched myself high in the . . .

  SPLASH!

  He got away. The idiot fish got away! All three of us stood there on the bank and watched him swim away. Little Alfred flopped down in the sand and plunged into a Deep Pout, and we’re talking about tragic eyes and pooched lips.

  I whirled around to Drover. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve let the fish get away and now our little pal has a broken heart. I hope you’re happy. Oh, and by the way, Drover, we have linked you to the stolen liver.�
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  “I thought the buzzards did it.”

  “No. It was you. We know it was you. You know it was you. How could you have committed such a selfish act of selfishness?”

  His lip curled down and a tear slipped out of the corner of one eye. “Well . . . I was hungry, and I was afraid you’d eat it all.”

  “Me? You actually thought I would steal bait from my little pal? Ha! What a wild and corrupt imagination you have. I’m shocked, Drover, shocked and outraged and very, very disappointed in you.”

  “Well . . .” He was crying now. “It smelled so good and I was starving and I just couldn’t resist.”

  “There! Now we’ve come to the core of the root. You couldn’t resist. Son, those of us in the Security Business are trained to resist all temptation. We are sworn to resist. We are bound by our Cowdog Oath to resist.”

  “I know, I’m a thief, I’m a failure, I’m a disgrace to the ranch.”

  “Yes, you are. It’s true. In a moment of weakness, you yielded to temptation. What you didn’t realize . . .”

  Hmmm. At that very moment, and I mean right in the middle of this important lecture, my eyes fell upon a scrap of liver lying on the ground, right at my very feet. I darted my nose down to it, sniffed it, and gulped it down.

  “What you failed to realize was that you left one scrap of liver for me, you greedy little goat, and now . . .”

  HUH?

  There was a cork hanging in the air, right in front of my chin, a white cork with a red stripe down the middle. Hadn’t I seen that cork before, or one just like it? And how could a cork just . . . hang in front of a guy’s . . .

  I shot a glance at Drover. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. I shot a glance at Alfred. He was staring at me too, and the expression on his face showed . . . well, shock. Fear. Astonishment. There was a long, throbbing moment of silence. Then . . .

  Little Alfred spoke. “Oh my. Hankie, you just swallowed my fishhook!”

  I did? Swallowed a fishhook? But I’d thought . . . see, there was this piece of liver just lying there on the bank and . . .

  Oh for Pete’s sakes, that had been his bait! He’d caught the fish with that very hook and bait, only the stupid fish hadn’t swallowed it and it had popped out of his . . .

  Gulp.

  The three of us exchanged Looks of Greatest Concern. I switched my tail over to Slow Mournful Wags.

  The boy’s face had turned pale. “What are we gonna do now?”

  I . . . I didn’t have an answer to that, but something told me that it wasn’t good for a dog to have a fishhook in his stomach. See, as long as the liver stayed on the hook, the barb, the deadly barb, was covered up. But guess what happens to liver in a dog’s stomach. It gets digested, and then . . .

  Gulp.

  We had a serious problem here, and the way I framed it up, we had maybe an hour to get that hook out of my innards, before . . .

  Drover fell apart and started moaning. Little Alfred began to cry. “I wish we hadn’t come fishing. My doggie ate a fishhook and . . . I want my mommy!”

  So they both moaned and cried, and what was I supposed to do? I just sat there, staring at that silly cork. At last the boy got control of himself.

  “We bettoo go home, fast. I’ll cut the stwing.”

  I wasn’t so sure that was a good idea, but I wasn’t so sure it was a bad one either. I mean, what were you supposed to do in this situation? If you tried to pull the string, it might cause the hook to dig into . . . but if you cut the string and left it there . . .

  Yikes.

  Alfred found a pocket knife in his tackle box and cut the string. I hardly knew how to respond when I felt the string slipping down into my . . . yes, we sure needed to make a fast trip back to the house.

  Alfred and I ran. Drover limped along behind. I could hear him moaning. “Oh, it’s all my fault and I feel so guilty, and this leg’s about to kill me, oh my leg!”

  That helped a bunch, all his moaning and groaning and feeling guilty.

  At last we reached headquarters and went streaking into the yard. Sally May was outside, working in her flower beds again, and Baby Molly was lying on a blanket nearby. When Sally May heard us coming, she straightened up and stared at us for a moment. Somehow she knew that we were bringing trouble.

  Didn’t I tell you? She reads minds.

  She dropped her trowel and met us at the gate. “What’s wrong, Alfred? Are you all right? What’s happened?” The boy started crying and blurted out the whole story. When Sally May heard the part about the swallowed fishhook, her eyes seemed to . . . well, roll back into her head. “I knew it. Alfred, honey, that’s why Mommy didn’t want you to go fishing without an adult.”

  “Mom, what can we do to save Hankie?”

  She thought for a moment, her eyes flicking back and forth from me to Alfred. “I don’t know. Run get your dad. No, wait. He’s in the alfalfa field. Run get Slim. He’s welding in the machine shed. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

  Alfred took off running for the machine shed. When he was gone, I found myself . . . well, all alone with . . . uh . . . Sally May, and I must admit that it made me very uncomfortable. I mean, just that very morning we had sort of patched things up and started over with our, uh, relationship, and now . . . this.

  I could tell, just by looking at her, that she wasn’t real happy about this. For a long time she stared down at me, shaking her head and moving her lips. Then . . . you won’t believe this . . . then she knelt down, took my face in her hands, and sang a song. Here’s how it went.

  Chapter Eleven: A Deadly Hook Lurks in My Stomach

  Sally May’s Lament

  Hank, I just don’t understand,

  What’s your plan, how you can

  Do the crazy things that you do.

  I can make no sense at all,

  Off the wall, of all the gall,

  Tell me this is not really true.

  How in thunderation, Hank, could you have done this latest thing?

  Swallowed down a fishhook—and even ate the string!

  I don’t want to get involved,

  Don’t ask me to try to solve

  This latest brainless stunt that you’ve hatched.

  I have many things to do,

  Not including things that you

  Bring to me and drop in my lap.

  I deserve my quiet time, planting flowers in my yard.

  But here you are again—good Lord, you make it hard!

  How’s a woman to react

  To this latest stupid act?

  Don’t we give you plenty to eat?

  If we took the money that

  We spend on dogs, spend on cats,

  We could buy a mountain retreat.

  We’ve tried to raise our son up right, filled his room with noble books.

  But his best friend is a dog—who gobbles fishing hooks!

  By the time she had finished her song, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned and saw Slim and Alfred coming into the yard. Alfred was tugging at Slim’s hand, trying to get some speed out of him, but that wasn’t easy. Slim does things at his own pace, which is somewhere between slow and slower.

  But at last they arrived on the scene. Sally May cast a worried glance towards Slim. So did Little Alfred. So did I. I mean, this was a time to be worried, right? He pushed his hat to the back of his head and shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

  “Ate a fishhook, huh?”

  Well, I . . . no, I didn’t exactly eat a fishhook. That would have been a silly thing to do. I ate a piece of meat, see, and it happened to be attached to a . . . well, to a hook. A fishhook. So to answer the question, yes, a fishhook had been swallowed.

  Slim shook his head. “Hank, you are such a birdbrain.”

  I . . . I didn’t know how
to respond to that, so I swept my tail across the grass and tried to squeeze up a little smile.

  Sally May spoke. “Slim, is there anything . . . look, I don’t want to sound cruel and unfeeling, but our budget this month is tight. There’s nothing in it for major surgery at the vet clinic to remove a . . .” She shot me a glare. “. . . a fishhook from a dog’s stomach, for crying out loud.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So is there something we might try . . . is there anything we could do here to get it out? I’ll be honest, Slim, this is beyond the realm of my experience.”

  “Yalp.” He shifted his weight to his other leg. “Well, there might be. I went through this once before with a dog that ate a turkey heart that was attached to a hook.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “You’ve got to make the dog throw it up. Soap. You got some dish warshing soap in a squeeze bottle?”

  “Yes, right beside the sink. Alfred, go fetch it, and hurry.”

  The boy headed for the house in a run. Slim continued. “See, you squirt the soap into his mouth and hold his jaws shut, so’s he can’t spit it out. Once he swallers enough of it, his old stomach’ll pitch it back up.”

  “How dainty.”

  “And if you’re lucky, the hook’ll come out with the soap.”

  “I see. And if it doesn’t?”

  He shrugged. “If his stomach dissolves that piece of liver, it’ll expose the barb, and then we might have a problem.”

  Sally May looked off to the horizon. “The things we do for our children.”

  “Yalp. But maybe it’ll work.”

  Alfred came flying out of the house and handed Slim a white plastic squeeze bottle. Then the boy hugged his momma’s leg and watched. Slim took a deep breath and sat down in the grass. He dragged me over to him and threw a leg around my middle.

  “Are you ready for this, pooch? It ain’t going to be fun for either one of us, but even less for you than for me. Open up.”