The Case of the Swirling Killer Tornado

by John R. Erickson

  And did I mention that it was covered with steel armored plate? Yes sir, one inch of solid steel, bolted into ten inches of solid oak, and I soon realized that if I kept up my frenzy of chewing, I would soon be toothless.

  I stopped to catch my breath and spit wood. Steel, that is, from the steel plate.

  Again, Drover was watching. “How’s it going now?”

  I gave him a withering glare and was about to give him worse than that when, all of a sudden and before our very eyes, the door opened.

  I turned a worldly smile upon my companion. “As you can see, Drover, the door gave up.”

  “You mean, it opened itself?”

  “Of course it did. That door knew that if it didn’t yield to my powerful attack, it would soon be nothing but splinters and sawdust. You probably thought . . .”

  HUH?

  Yikes, someone was standing in the gloomy darkness in front of us. A small person, perhaps a midget, dressed in a strange red and white polkadot uniform.

  I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck and a deep ferocious growl began to rumble in my . . .

  Okay, relax. Did you think it was one of the green Charlie Monsters? Ha, ha, ha. No, not at all.

  Little Alfred. Wearing red and white polka-dot pajamas. Ha, ha, ha. See, I had known, or had suspected . . .

  Never mind.

  It was our friend, Little Alfred, not a Charlie Monster, and that was the best news of the year. I almost fainted with relief. Or to view it at a slightly different angle, Drover almost fainted with relief, while I was merely glad to see him.

  Little Alfred, that is. I was glad to see Little Alfred, not Drover. I had been with him all night and that was one night too many.

  The boy switched on the utility room light and stared at the, uh, screen door, the damaged screen door. His eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open.

  “Ummmmmmmm!”

  At that very moment, I decided the time had come to switch all circuits over to Innocent Looks and Slow Tail Thumping. I mean, “Ummmmmm” is sort of a tip-off word, right? It warns of stormy weather ahead, so to speak.

  “You dogs wecked the scween door and my mom’s gonna be MAD!”

  I found myself fidgeting and turning my gaze away from the, uh, screen door, and generally feeling uncomfortable about the whole thing. The very mention of Alfred’s mom brought back a rush of unpleasant memories—our many misunderstandings, a relationship that had known its share of ups and downs, being chased around the yard by an angry ranch wife and her broom.

  “Hankie, how come you wecked the scween?”

  Well, I . . . that is, we thought . . . there were all these huge loud explosions and . . . well, Charlie Monsters running around all over the place and . . .

  “Were you doggies scared of the storm?”

  Storm? Oh no. Storms had never bothered me. What had scared me and Drover . . . well, mainly Drover, what had scared Drover had been something much bigger and far more serious than your average little . . .

  “Well,” the boy dropped his voice to a whisper, “it scared me too, all that thundoo and wightning.”

  Oh?

  The boy was scared, huh? Well, yes, storms were, uh, pretty scary things. The big ones, that is, your major summer thunderstorms, we’re talking about. Pretty scary.

  “Do you doggies want to come into the house so we can be scared together?”

  Come into the . . . no, we had Night Patrol and many other . . . there really wasn’t time in our busy . . .

  But when he opened what was left of the screen door, I suddenly realized that taking care of the kids and making sure they got a good night’s sleep was the very most important job for every ranch dog and . . .

  Okay, what the heck, we had time. If it would make Sally May’s child sleep better and feel more secure . . .

  KA-BOOOM!

  We flew into the house . . . which might not have been one of the smartest things we ever did.

  Chapter Five: The Bacon Temptation

  I went straight to the rug which lay in the middle of the utility room floor. There, I laid down and ordered Drover to do the same.

  I wanted Little Alfred to know, and to SEE through our very actions, that our motives here were as pure as the driveled snow, and that we had every intention of being good dogs in the house.

  I mean, some of your lower-class dogs will take advantage of every situation and every little gesture of kindness. You let ’em into the house and they go nuts.

  Not us, fellers. We knew our place: on that rug in the utility room. That’s all we needed or wanted, just a warm dry place in the same area of the house where the cowboys took off their dirty boots and spurs. That was plenty good for us.

  Shucks, we didn’t need to go even one step farther into Sally May’s clean house. A ranch dog had no business in the kitchen or the living room anyways.

  The utility room was just fine, and we laid down on that rug and became models of Perfect Dog Behavior in the House.

  Alfred looked at us. “Are you gonna sweep out here?”

  Oh yeah, sure, fine. Perfect place to sleep. We were just glad to have a dry rug and a roof over our heads.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Pew! You doggies are wet and you stink.”

  Yes, well, the Wet Dog Smell wasn’t one of my favorites either, but sometimes a guy can’t help how he smells. We were doing the best we could.

  I mean, we don’t try to stink. We don’t wake up in the morning and say, “Gosh, I think I’ll stink today.” Those things just happen.

  “Well, nighty night.” He turned out the light and went back to bed.

  Ah yes, this was the life! No dog could have asked for more. Outside in the Cruel World, the lightning tore through the dark fabric of night and the thunder boomed and the rain made a steady roar on the . . .

  It was a thunderstorm, see. Perhaps you had thought it was an invasion of Charlie Monsters and, okay, there for a few minutes I had thought so too, but the evidence was beginning to point toward a thunderstorm instead of an invasion.

  At first glance, they are very similar. Every dog gets fooled once in a while, and it’s no disgrace, no big deal.

  I stretched out on the rug and surrendered my grip on the world. At last, no cares or responsibilities, just a warm, dry porkchop to snorking mork sniffer, but there was a light shining in my eyes.

  “Drover, turn out the light, will you?”

  “Rumple snuffbox chicken feather.”

  “Drover, I said . . .”

  I sat up and cracked open one eye and . . . a light? A beam of light, cutting through the darkness and stabbing me in the retinas? I was about to deliver a Warning Bark to the whoever-it-was when, much to my surprise, I heard a whispering voice, which I recognized as Little Alfred’s.

  It appeared that he had crept back out to the utility room and was now wielding a lighted flashlight.

  “Doggies, I’m scared. Want to come sweep in my woom?”

  Come into his room? I ran that one through my data banks and received a confirmation of my first reaction: That wasn’t a great idea.

  Why, the very thought of moving deeper into a house which contained a potentially deadly ranch wife . . . uh-uh. No thanks. We were doing fine in the . . .

  What was that in his right hand? Little Alfred’s right hand, that is. He appeared to be holding a strip of something white in his right hand, and he seemed to be more or less gesturing with it, pointing it in our direction.

  I squinted my eyes, lifted my ears to Full Alert position, and gave my tail several slow whaps on the floor. The light was so poor out there that I could hardly . . . sniff sniff.

  BACON?

  A strip of raw bacon?

  I sampled the air again to confirm my original reading on the alleged material, and . . . yes, the boy had come armed with a slice
of raw bacon.

  Oh brother.

  Have we ever discussed raw bacon? Maybe not. It’s not a subject I enjoy discussing. I mean, it’s a subject I love to discuss, also to dream about and eat, but any discussion of raw bacon is bound to expose a certain . . . well, weakness, you might say, in my innermost fundamental . . .

  Okay, let’s cut to the bottom line. I have a terrible weakness for raw bacon. There it is. I’ve never been able to say no to a slice of raw bacon.

  Holy smokes, just saying it makes my mouth water!

  Little Alfred was well aware of my weakness for bacon and he had come to tempt me.

  I had to resist. Hey, I had figgered out his little game, I knew what he was trying to pull (lure us into his bedroom), and I HAD TO BE STRONG.

  I turned my nose toward the north wall, hoping that might . . . but the fragrant little bacon waves followed my nose and filled them with . . .

  My ears began to jump around. My eyelids quivered. The last three inches of my tail began to squirm around like a . . . I don’t know, like something that didn’t belong to the rest of my body.

  My mouth was watering so hard that I found it necessary to lick my chops, and that was a bad sign. I mean, when a guy goes to licking his chops, it usually means . . .

  NO! Stop that! Tail, lie still. Mouth, go dry. Ears, be still. Nose, sniff no more.

  I tried counting sheep. I pretended that I was locked in a sealed bubble, a soap bubble, into which no smell could penetrate.

  No luck.

  I tried to concentrate on the most unpleasant subject I could imagine—Pete the Barncat. I saw his grinning face and heard his sniveling, whining voice. Pete would want me to surrender to the Bacon Urge, to be lured into the depths of the house, and to be caught in the act by Sally May.

  It seemed to be working, the Pete deal. I dis­liked him so much that the mere thought of him made the mere thought of raw bacon totally . . . boy, that stuff smelled delicious!

  I couldn’t turn off my nose. What’s a guy to do?

  I mean, you’ve got this very sensitive high-tech sensory device sitting out there on the end of your snoot and it can pick up the scent of a fly three hundred yards away in the midst of a hurricane and most of the time that’s good, but sometimes it works against you when . . .

  The smell of that bacon was about to drive me bazooka!

  I was trembling. The waterworks of my mouth were pumping away, I mean, we’re talking about an artesian well flowing a hundred gallons a minute, and when a guy has a river running through his mouth, he’s got to . . . lick his chops.

  “Drover, wake up. This is an emergency.” Much to my surprise, he sat straight up. “Thanks, pal. I really hate to bother you, but I need your help, perhaps more than at any time in my entire career!”

  “I smell bacon.”

  “Yes, and I don’t have time to go into all the details, but we must stiffen our resolve and deny ourselves the momentary pleasure of . . .”

  “Raw bacon?”

  “Exactly. And as I was saying, this is going to be one of those deals where we have to operate on total blind trust.”

  “I see.”

  “So I guess it all comes down to this, Drover: Do you trust me totally, or would you rather be struck blind for the rest of your life?”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “I must confide in you, my friend. The smell of that bacon is pulling me, luring me, tugging me into Sally May’s House of Horrors, from which no dog has ever returned alive.”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “And I’m depending on you to be strong, Drover. After years and years of being a dingbat, you must rise to the occasion and help me resist the lure of that bacon smell.”

  “Oh my gosh.”

  “We’re depending on you, son, the entire amassed forces of the Security Division. If you weaken and crumble now, we’ll all be thrashed by Sally May’s broom, swept away like . . . I love bacon, Drover, stop me, do something, hurry!”

  “Okay, Hank, I think I can handle it.”

  “I knew you could, Drover, honest I did. I always knew that somewhere in the garbage heap of your mind, there was a tiny bean sprout of courage, just waiting to grow into a mighty oak tree.”

  “I can do it, Hank. You can depend on me.”

  It was, to say the least, a touching moment. I mean, there we were, the elite of the Security Divi­sion, the cream of the tuna on toast. The smartest, the strongest, the best in our profession. We were fighting for our dignity, our honor, our very survival, and why was Drover . . .

  The moron, the dunce, the back-stabbing, two-timing, cheating, bushwhacking, counterfeit little . . . do you know what he did? He marched over to Little Alfred and ate my bacon!

  Okay, so be it. This was war. Nobody eats MY bacon and lives to eat the second piece. Drover lived but he didn’t eat the second piece—or did he? You’ll see.

  I love bacon.

  Chapter Six: Three Pounding Hearts in the Kitchen

  I had to give Drover Growls and Fangs to convince him that I was taking charge of the case, but that was no big deal.

  And then I had to follow Little Alfred into the kitchen to collect my bacon. He had come with only one piece, don’t you see, and had to raid the friginator again.

  Frigoriginator.

  Figerator.

  Phooey. The ice box.

  He had to raid the ice box again to get my Special Bacon Award. Following the beam of his flashlight, we crept on silent toes and paws into the kitchen. There, we halted in front of the frigin . . . ice box.

  Alfred put a finger to his lips and said, “Shhh.” And he gave me a wink. I didn’t wink back because, well, dogs don’t wink.

  Do we? I don’t think so. Seems to me that our eyelids more or less work together, and where one goes the other is likely to follow.

  Anyways, I didn’t wink back but I did move my paws up and down, signaling Enormous Anticipa­tion, and I did lick my chops and went to Broad Joyous Swings on the tail section.

  I’m sure the boy knew at a glance that this was a very important moment in my career, and would you like to guess what the little stinkpot did?

  Instead of just handing me the bacon or holding it out so that I could lift it gently from his out­stretched fingers, he laid it over the top of my snout.

  You can’t imagine what a commotion this caused. I mean, there I was, dying inside from bacon lust, and he draped my award over the top of my snout—where I was getting extreme and maximum smells but where I couldn’t reach it with my tongue and teeth.

  I tried a correction maneuver, moving my jaws at a high rate of speed—chomping, that is—but that didn’t seem to help. I then shifted into a second correction maneuver: shot my tongue straight out to Max Length, threw a 180-degree curl into it, and sent it arcing back over the top of my nose.

  Did you follow all of that? It was pretty complicated, actually, and if you missed some of the steps, don’t worry. As long as I know what I’m doing, it doesn’t matter if you do or not.

  I definitely knew what I was doing and I did it about as well as it could be done. That Reverse Curl was pretty amazing but I ran out of tongue about half an inch short of the prize.

  At that point, I initiated Correction Three: went to Full Reverse on all engines, in hopes that . . . well, the thought had occurred to me that if I ran backward fast enough, my mouth might somehow catch up with the, uh, elusive bacon.

  Not a bad idea but it didn’t work either. What it did accomplish was to crash my tail section into a kitchen chair, which more or less scooted and scratched across the limoleun floor and caused all three of us to freeze in our tracks.

  In the dead silence, we heard a bed squeak in a distant room. Then, a voice that sent cheers of fill down my spine, chills of fear, and we’re talking about serious heavy-duty fills of cheer, because th
e voice belonged to the most feared woman on the ranch.

  In all of Ochiltree County.

  In the whole state of Texas.

  Sally May.

  Yes, it was her voice. She didn’t have much to say at that hour of the night, but then Sally May didn’t have to say a whole lot to scare the living bejeebers out of two dogs and one little boy.

  She said, “Alfred?”

  Dead silence, fellers, except for all the throbbing hearts in the room. Three throbbing hearts. Nobody breathed or moved. We were frozen, petri­fied . . . although that bacon was still draped over my snout and I found myself twisting my head around to see if I could . . .

  You know, if a guy twists his head far enough in one direction, he’ll fall over backward. Try it some time. Just lean your head back as far as she’ll go, and then lean it back some more. It works.

  Boy, I felt pretty silly, falling over backward right in the middle of such a scary scenery, but by George, it happened before I knew it.

  Alfred almost had a stroke. His eyes were this big around . . . I guess you can’t see how big around they were . . . his eyes got as big around as, I don’t know, real big and real wide, and he had his finger up to his lips and he was trying to tell me to shut up and be still.

  I froze. Alfred froze. Drover shivered. In the silence, we heard another dreaded squeak of the bed. Then, the dreaded voice: “Alfred? Is that you?”

  Alfred’s eyes flew from side to side. He didn’t know what to do: answer, say nothing, stand still, or run like a striped ape. I sympathized because I didn’t have a great plan for my own, uh, health and survival, shall we say.

  And I was getting worried about Drover. You know Drover. When he gets scared, he just falls apart. He’ll run in circles, squeak, crash into things. You never know what the little mutt’s going to do next.

  So far, he was holding himself together. That was good because we had pretty muchly drifted into one of those situations from which some dogs never return alive. I mean, if Sally May ever caught us in her kitchen in the middle of the . . .