The Garbage Monster from Outer Space

by John R. Erickson

  Have I mentioned that I don’t like cats? I don’t like cats, and Pete is at the head of the list of Cats I Don’t Like.

  He was sliding along, see, purring like a little . . . something . . . chain saw, motorboat, refrigerator . . . and rubbing up against everything in sight. Oh, and he was grinning. Why would a cat be grinning at that hour of the morning? I wasn’t sure, but I knew that he was up to no good. I tried to ignore him, in hopes he might go away. He didn’t. He came up and started rubbing on my legs, and then he grinned up at me and said, “Hi, Hankie,” in that simpering, whiny voice of his.

  I hate that. It drives me nuts. My ears jumped. My lips rose into a snarl and a growl began to form deep in the missile silo of my throat. “Kitty, I must warn you that I’m having a bad day, and seeing you only makes it worse. You might want to move along.”

  He continued to rub. “Poor doggie! What seems to be the trouble?”

  “I don’t discuss my troubles in front of cats. Sorry. We have rules against that.”

  “Do you really? Then let me guess.”

  “I’m sorry, but we have rules against cats guessing.”

  “My goodness, Hankie, you have so many rules.”

  “That’s right, Kitty, and that happens to be one of the major differences between us dogs and you cats. We live by rules. You cats live by nothing but your own selfish desires.”

  “Oh, I think you have it wrong, Hankie.” He batted his eyes and smirked. “Dogs live by rules, but cats just . . . rule.”

  I glared down at the little pest and tried to think of a scorching reply. I couldn’t think of anything really special, so I said, “Pete, that’s the dumbest thing you’ve said since the last dumb thing you said. And stop rubbing on my legs.”

  “My goodness, Hankie, do you have rules against that too?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, we do. Rule Twelve in the Cowdog Manual of Conduct states in no un­certain terms that cats ‘shall keep their distance and never rub on dogs.’ There, take that.”

  “Ooo, how serious.”

  “You got that right, Kitty, and if you keep it up . . .”

  His weird yellow eyes popped open. “Yes? Go on, Hankie. What might happen? I’m dying to hear this. I mean, it’s not even eight o’clock yet and already you’re in a world of trouble for,” he gave me a wink, “tipping over the garbage barrels and scattering trash.”

  “I didn’t do that, Pete. I was an innocent grandstander. Bystander. I was standing by innocently and did nothing wrong.”

  He moved up from my legs and began rubbing on my chest. “I know that, Hankie. I watched the whole thing from the iris patch. It’s so sad that you got caught and blamed for what the coons did. I know it makes you angry.”

  “You bet it does. It was totally unjust and unfair.”

  “Uh-huh, and what makes it even worse is that . . .” He flicked his tail under my chin. “. . . what makes it really bad, Hankie, is that now I can do almost anything to you . . . and get by with it.”

  The growl in my throat increased in strength. “What do you mean by that, Kitty? Out with it. Let’s get right to the point, if you have a point.”

  “Oh, I do, I do. See, you’re already in so much trouble, Hankie, that you don’t dare get mad at me. What would Sally May think if I cried out in pain and started dragging my leg, hmmm?”

  “She’d . . .” I drilled him with my gaze. “Pete, you’re a despicable little creep.”

  “Yes I am, and I just love it.”

  “But I’m afraid it won’t work.”

  “But it is working, Hankie. You’re just aching to beat me up, aren’t you? But you can’t, can you?”

  “Ha! That’s what you think. I don’t have to sit here and take trash off a cat. Do you know why, Pete? Because I can move.”

  “Try it.”

  “Sure, fine. I’ll not only try it, I’ll do it. Good­bye, I’m leaving.”

  And with that, I squared my shoulders and held my head at a proud angle and marched my­self up to the machine shed, leaving Kitty Kitty in the shambles of his own rubble. By George, if I couldn’t beat him up and chase him up a tree, at least I could walk away and claim a moral victory. Ha! Imagine him thinking that . . .

  He followed me. The cat followed me!

  At that very moment, Drover stuck his head out of the crack between the big sliding doors of the machine shed. He saw me and grinned. “Oh, hi, Hank. Sorry I had to leave the big fight, but you know, this old leg went out on me and . . .”

  “And so you left me to be blamed for the whole garbage mess, right? What a friend you turned out to be.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid that might happen, and I’ve been feeling pretty bad about it.”

  I shot a glance at Pete. He was still coming. “Uh, Drover, just how badly do you feel about it? I mean, running away from a combat situation and leaving a friend in his moment of greatest need?”

  “Terrible, awful. The guilt has just been eating me up.”

  “No kidding. That bad, huh? Well, I know just the thing to solve this terrible problem of your guilt.”

  “You do? Oh good. How hard will it be?”

  “Easy as pie. You see that cat coming in our direction?”

  He turned his eyes to the east. “Oh yeah, that’s Pete, good old Pete.”

  “Actually, Drover . . .” I studied the clouds for a moment. “. . . that’s not Pete. It’s a stray cat, an im­postor, a cat that resembles Pete in many ways.”

  “Boy, you could have fooled me. He looks just like Pete.”

  “Uh-huh, I know, Drover, but he’s not.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “He’s a stray cat who’s impersonating Pete.”

  “No fooling? Gosh, why would he do that?”

  “We’re not sure at this point, Drover. All I can tell you is that Pete has asked us, the elite members of the Security Division, his, uh, good friends, to beat up this impostor and run him off the ranch.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  “And we’re looking for volunteers to, uh, do the job, so to speak.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  “And your name came to mind. It’s a great honor. Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I’m scared of cats.”

  “No problem, Drover. This cat is a patsy. You could whip him with one paw tied behind his back.”

  He grinned and stepped out of the machine shed. “Gosh, you really think so? I never whipped a cat before.”

  “This is your lucky day.” I shot another glance at Mister Kitty Moocher. Heh, heh. He suspected nothing, had no idea that he was walking into the jaws of my trap. “Okay, here’s the deal, Drover. You walk up to that cat and say, ‘What’s your name?’ If he says his name is Pete, we’ll know for sure that he’s the impostor. I mean, what else would an impostor say?”

  “Well, gosh, I never thought about that.”

  “It makes perfect sense. He wants us to think he’s Pete, right? If he says he’s Pete, he’s lying. Jump right into the middle of him and beat the stuffings out of him. Don’t hold anything back. And remember, this is for our friend Pete, good old Pete.”

  The little dunce jerked himself up to his full height. “You know what, Hank, I think I can do it, and I’m glad to do it for old Pete.”

  “That’s the spirit. Go get ’im, Drover. There’s liable to be a promotion in this.”

  “Oh goodie. Here I go.”

  I sat down to watch the show. Drover marched straight over to the cat and stuck his nose in Pete’s face. I strained my ears to hear what he said. I could hardly wait.

  “Hey, you,” said Drover, “what’s your name?”

  Pete gave him a puzzled look, shot a glance at me, and turned his eyes back on Drover. And then he said—you won’t believe this—with a big grin on his face, he said, “Genghis Khan.”

&n
bsp; HUH? The little dope. How could he have . . .

  Drover beamed a smile and began wagging his stub tail. “Oh, hi, Pete. Gosh, there for a minute we thought you were someone else, but you’re not and I don’t have to beat you up. Come on, let’s tell Hank. He’ll be so proud.”

  And so the runt came rushing back to tell me the wonderful news. I ignored him. My eyes were on Pete. He was still grinning and purring, and he came straight to me and started rubbing on my legs.

  “Hi, Hankie. It didn’t work and I’m back.”

  Yes, he was back. It was my second defeat of the morning. You’ll never guess what I did about that.

  Chapter Five: I Embark on a New Career—as an Outlaw!

  Drover must have noticed that a faraway look had come into my eyes, and that I wasn’t celebrating the “success” of his mission.

  “Hank? Hello? Gosh, I thought you’d be happy that I found old Pete and we’re all together again.” When I didn’t respond, he moved into the path of my gaze. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  Slowly, my thoughts returned to the present moment. I stared into Drover’s face. “You don’t understand, do you? No, of course not, so let me lay it out for you.” I began pacing, mainly to keep the cat from rubbing the hair off my legs. “Drover, I’ve been disgraced and humiliated. It’s no longer possible for me to carry on my duties as Head of Ranch Security. Therefore, as of this moment, I am resigning my position and leaving the ranch.”

  Drover’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. He was struck speechless. Well, almost speechless. All he could say was, “Yeah but . . . yeah but . . . yeah but . . .”

  A look of glee came over the cat’s face. “Well, just darn the luck. I hope it wasn’t something I did, Hankie.”

  I tried to ignore him. “Drover, I’m leaving the ranch in your hands.”

  “Yeah but . . . wait . . . help . . . oh my gosh, I don’t even have any hands! All I’ve got is these paws and . . . I, I, I . . . I don’t think I can handle this!” He lowered the front half of his body to the ground, raised his hiney in the air, and covered his eyes with his paws. “I’m not here. I’ve gone back to bed.”

  “Don’t try to hide, Drover. It’s time for you to step up to the plate.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “Not a dinner plate, Drover, but the Home Plate of Life. You’re in charge now. I’ll leave you with one piece of advice. Stay away from the garbage barrels. Oh, and don’t get too friendly with the cats.”

  “That’s two pieces of advice, and I’m fixing to overload.” I saw one of his eyes peeking out from between his paws. “Where will you go? What’ll you do?”

  “Oh,” my gaze went to the far horizon, “you won’t be proud to hear this, Drover, but I’m afraid that I’m going to become . . . an outlaw.” I heard him gasp. “That’s what happens to a dog when he tries to live by the rules and gets punished for it. Something happens, Drover. It kills something deep inside. It’s a wound that won’t heal, a pain that won’t go away. Good-bye, son, and take good care of the ranch.”

  And with that, I turned and walked away—a broken dog, a dog who had tried his best but had failed. I had gone maybe thirty steps when I heard a voice behind me. I looked back and saw Pete, waving his paw and rubbing against Drover’s leg.

  Pete’s parting words were, “Bye, Hankie. Cats rule.”

  Many thoughts marched across the parade ground of my mind. The main thought was that I should have hamburgerized the cat when I had the chance. Heck, I was leaving anyway. I should have left with one last burst of pleasure. But I put this thought and all the others out of my mind. Pete wasn’t my problem any more.

  I was a free dog! No more worries or cares, no more eighteen-hour days, no more crushing responsibility. I pointed myself toward the west, turned my back on the ranch I had loved and protected, and went marching into a new life . . . as an outlaw.

  Pretty exciting, huh? I thought so. I couldn’t wait to throw myself into the task of living off the land. I would eat fresh rabbit twice a day, and wild fruits and berries and nuts, gathered from Nature’s own supermarket. No more tasteless dog food kernels out of a sack for me. Shucks, this was going to be a blast, and I wondered why I hadn’t done it sooner.

  Pete didn’t know it, but he had done me a huge favor by pushing me over the brink of the edge.

  I made my way down to the creek and followed it in a westerly direction. Soon, all the familiar landmarks disappeared and I found myself in new country, wild country that touched the savage depths of my savage heart. I was already hungry, so I put my nose to the groundstone and went right to work, applying my vast skills as a tracker, hunter, stalker, and liver-off-the-lander.

  It didn’t take me long to pick up the scent of a rabbit and within minutes I had followed this tender, juicy little bunny to a hole in the ground. Yes sir, I had him cornered. All that remained was for me to put the old claws to work and dig the little feller out.

  Two hours later I, uh, had excavated a huge pile of dirt and . . . rabbits aren’t as easy to dig out of holes as you might have suspected, see, and this one appeared to be pretty safe in . . . who’d have thought that a shrimpy little rabbit could . . .

  Phooey. I’d never cared much for the taste of rabbit anyway. Nuts and berries, that’s what I needed. Nuts and berries and certain roots that were known only to dogs who had finished the course in Wilderness Survival.

  I abandoned the rabbit chase and began shopping for tidbits and morsels that were . . . well, in short supply, you might say. I mean, this was the Texas Panhandle, after all, not the Garden of Eating, and yes, it did take me a while to locate a plump, juicy root that promised to silence the growling in my stomach.

  But at last I found one, a plump, juicy white root of the soapweed plant. I crunched into it. Great texture, nice crunchy texture, and by George, once I had adjusted to the first taste, I began to . . .

  Spit it out. Gag! It tasted like SOAP! No wonder they called it soapweed. How foolish of me . . . but there were other plants out here, hundreds of them, and other animals had figured out how to survive. Surely I could too. So I threw myself into the task, hunting and foraging, digging and tasting, and by the end of the day . . .

  Okay, let’s face the truth. I was starving and I had found a new respect for any animal that could survive in the wild. Was I missing something? Everything tasted like wood or dirt. Or soap. If this was a preview of life on the Outlaw Trail, fellers, I might have to rethink my plans for the future.

  Well, my spirits had just about hit the bottom and I was walking along, looking at all the trees and bushes that weren’t fit to eat, when all at once I saw a bush move up ahead. Ah ha, maybe, just maybe, I had found myself a bunny rabbit who wasn’t twenty feet down in the earth—a rabbit, in other words, who could be chased and caught in the normal manner.

  Have we discussed my position on rabbits? I love ’em. Sometimes they’re hard to catch, but they’re delicious, and boy, was I ready for a nice rabbit dinner. I threw all circuits over into Stealthy Crouch Mode and began the Stalking Procedure.

  This required a great deal of patience. I’ll be the first to admit that patience had never been one of my, uh, more obvious qualities. I mean, when your mind operates at a high rate of speed, when it’s filled with plans and grand thoughts, it’s hard to adjust to the slow rhythms of a brainless bunny rabbit.

  But my weeks of surviving in the wilderness had . . . okay, hours, but they had been the longest hours of my life . . . my long hours of surviving in the wilderness had forced patience upon me, and I began stalking the rabbit with all the patience of a wild aminal. Animal. Beast.

  I put my nose to the ground and went to work. Yes, there was a scent, the very clear scent of a rabbit, and the farther I went, the heavier and wilder the scent became. This must be a pretty wild rabbit, because he sure had left a . . .

  HUH?

 
; I went to Full Air Brakes and shut everything down. I froze in my tracks and cut my eyes from side to side. I could feel a strip of hair rising along my backbone, all the way out to the end of my tail.

  You know that scent we were following? That scent you thought belonged to a “wild rabbit,” to use your exact words? Get ready for a shock. That scent had nothing to do with rabbits, but it had a lot to do with COYOTES. See, at certain times and under certain circumstances, the scent of a rabbit is hard to distinguish from . . .

  Let’s just say that we’d gotten some faulty readings on our instruments, and they had put us on the trail of some of the worst villains in the country. I was out there playing outlaw, but the guys whose scent I was following didn’t just play. They were outlaws, the real McCall. And suddenly my appetite for the Outlaw Trail began to shrink, and if I could just back myself out of there without making a sound . . .

  Oops. Who had put that bush right in my path? Surely it hadn’t been there before, but it was now and I brushed against it and one of the branches snapped. I flattened myself out on the ground and lay perfectly . . .

  Eyes? Yipes, I suddenly realized that I was being stared at by two yellow, wolfish eyes. Who on the ranch had such “yellow, wolfish eyes”? Gulp. Rip and Snort, the notorious coyote brothers.

  But wait a second. Rip and Snort had two eyes apiece, and two eyes plus two eyes equals four eyes, right? Yet I was seeing just two eyes, so . . . hmmm. Somehow the math . . .

  Ah ha, but then I saw the tail, a long fluffy coyote tail, and that made it all work out. Don’t you get it? I was seeing Rip’s eyes and Snort’s tail, or Snort’s eyes and Rip’s tail, so that made the math come out right.

  Two coyotes. Rip and Snort. Gulp.

  I flattened myself even flatter on the ground. Maybe they would think I was a . . . I don’t know what, maybe a snake. Yes, maybe they would think I was a snake in the grass.

  I had blundered right into Rip and Snort’s territory. And if a guy could choose where he was blundering, he would never choose to blunder into their company. I mean, they were thugs. I knew ’em pretty well, and one of the things I knew about them was that, if given the opportunity, they just might eat a ranch dog for supper.