The Case of the Measled Cowboy

by John R. Erickson

  Okay, it was Little Alfred. He’d just come out of the house, and suddenly the pieces of the puddle began falling to pieces. Puzzle. Do you see the meaning of this? If Little Alfred had just come out of the house, it meant that he . . . it didn’t mean much of anything, actually, except that he’d finished his nap, and by then I was wide awake and alert. After a brief mutiny of my mental faculties, I had regained control of my ship.

  I whirled back to Drover. “I must ask you to disregard everything I’ve said up to this point. My mind was in a confused state.”

  “Yeah, ’cause you were half-asleep.”

  I gave him a stern glare. “You keep saying that. What’s your point? Are you trying to grind up an ax? Because if you are, let me remind you . . .” I wasn’t able to finish my thought, for at that moment Little Alfred joined us.

  “Hi, doggies. You waited for me, didn’t you? Nice doggies.”

  Yeah, that was me, all right, a “nice doggie” who obeyed orders and did his best to please the people in the house. I turned to my little pal and gave him Welcoming Wags on the tail section. I noticed right away that he had changed out of his pajamas and was now wearing his usual ranch clothes: striped overalls, black boots, and a little wool jacket. This seemed a pretty strong clue that he wasn’t sick anymore and that the measles hadn’t done him much harm.

  That was good news. But where was Slim? I kept expecting to see him come out the back door at any moment, but he didn’t. We waited and waited. At last Alfred addressed the matter.

  “You know what? Swim’s sick. He’s in bed and won’t get up. And you know what else?” The boy drew closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “He’s got gobs of wed spots on his face, and I think he’s got my measles!”

  I turned to Drover. “Did you hear that?”

  His eyes were blank. “Hear what?”

  “What Alfred just said.”

  “Oh yeah. Somebody’s swimming in bed, and then they’re going to have a measly wedding. I think that’s what he said.”

  “That’s NOT what he said. You garbled the entire message and turned it into sheer garbage. What would you do if I weren’t around, Drover?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sleep, most likely. I never seem to get enough sleep.”

  “Ha. You get enough sleep for fifteen dogs. That’s all you ever do, and if I weren’t around to force you out of bed once in a while, you’d turn into . . . I don’t know what. Yes I do. You’d turn into a bedbug with bed sores, and how would you like that?”

  “Well, I love sleep but I’ve never cared for bugs. Especially scorpions. I got stung on the nose one time. Sure did hurt.”

  I glared at the runt. “Do you want to hear the message or not? If you’ll pay attention for just a minute, I’ll translate it from Kid Language into our native tongue.”

  “Yeah, I almost forgot about that.”

  “Forgot about what?”

  “The time I tried to eat a wasp and he bit me on the tongue.”

  “Wasps don’t bite. They sting.”

  “Yeah, it stung like fire, and that was the last time I ever tried to eat a wasp.”

  I stared at him for a long moment of heartbeats. My lips moved but no words came out. I just couldn’t think of any words to describe . . . oh well. I turned away from the little lunatic and tried to get on with my life.

  Alfred had assumed a thoughtful pose. I wondered what he was being so thoughtful about, and I soon found out. He said, “You know what, doggies? I think we need to help Swim.”

  Help Slim? My mind raced back through the molasses swamp of the last several minutes and . . . oh yes, Slim. We’d been talking about Slim. He was inside the house, ill with something.

  We needed to help Slim? Well, that sounded like a good and decent thing to do. I’d always been the kind of dog who was ready and eager to help the less fortunate in this old world, and yes, by George, if Slim was sick and disfortunate, maybe we should help him.

  But how? I waited to hear the rest of it.

  Alfred arched his brows. “Why don’t we go inside?”

  Inside? Inside the house? Hey, I didn’t want to throw cold water on Alfred’s parade, but the very thought of entering Sally May’s . . .

  “See, my mom’s gone.”

  Yes, that was true.

  “And it’s cold out here.”

  Yes, true again. However . . .

  “And we have to go inside to help Swim.”

  Hmm. Good point. In fact, three good points, all in a row, and the very best one was the first: Sally May was gone. Heh heh. Yes, of course, it was all fitting together. Into the house and out again, no messes, no clues, no evidence of the . . . uh . . . of our brief occupation of the, uh, house, shall we say. Warm house, soft carpet upon which to lie, perhaps a few scraps from the, uh, family’s huge supply of . . .

  Great idea! But of course what made it even greater and more noble was the fact that we would be HELPING SLIM IN HIS HOUR OF NEED. The poor guy was sick! My heart went out to him, and I knew that if Sally May were present, she would want us to help the sick and the needy of this world. And if we didn’t, if we followed our own selfish desires, if we neglected our friend Slim . . . why, she would be shocked and disappointed.

  Alfred was right. We had a heavy responsibility here. It was our duty to care for Slim and nurse him back to health, and by George, I was ready to volunteer for the job. Sure, I had other work to do, jobs lined up, patrols to make, reports to file, but if a guy’s too busy to help out the widows and shut-ins, he’s just too busy.

  I managed to express all of this to Alfred, mostly through wags and Expressions of Deep Concern. I was ready to help our friend, our dear friend, our poor dear sick friend. Alfred gave me a grin and a wink, and opened the yard gate.

  I went into the yard. Just for an instant, I felt . . . well, a little uneasy. I mean, old habits die hardly . . . old habits hardly die . . . old habits . . . phooey. Sally May was gone and I knew she wouldn’t be back for two days, and what she didn’t know wouldn’t . . .

  I marched straight over to that big shrub be­side the porch and gave it a squirt. There! By George, I’d been wanting to do that for years. I was in the process of scratching up some grass when who or whom do you suppose stuck his head out of the flower bed?

  Pete.

  Kitty Kitty.

  He beamed me a sour smile. “Ummmm! I saw what you did, Hankie, and it wasn’t very nice.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “That’s right. Sally May wouldn’t approve. You know how she feels about dogs in the yard.”

  I laughed in his face. “Hey Kitty, I’ve got some bad news for you. Sally May’s gone for the day and we dogs are taking over the yard. Do you know what that means?”

  He studied me with hooded eyes. “I’d hate to guess, Hankie.”

  “Don’t guess, Pete. It would be a waste of time. Let me tell you.” I stuck my nose in his face, filled my chest with cold air, and gave him a blast of barking that, tee-hee, caused him to screech, hiss, hump his back, and go streaking out of the yard.

  Tee-hee. I loved it. I LOVED IT! New meaning rushed into my life as I chased him up a tree. Yes sir, when dealing with cats, it’s always best to go straight to the bottom line. As I marched back into the yard, holding my head at a triumphant angle, I realized that the little sneak had landed a few lucky punches to the end of my nose, but so what? Show me a dog without scabs on his nose and I’ll show you a dog who hasn’t done a proper job of humbling the kitties.

  I had my scars and was proud of them. I marched back into the yard, with my head high so that all the world could see my scars and know that Hank the Cowdog does not take trash off the cats.

  Chapter Five: I Discover a Pool of Spring Water

  Drover saw my battle wounds, and as you might expect, he was deeply impressed. “Boy, Pete sure trashed your nose.�
�

  “Thanks, pal. Did you see what I did to him?”

  “Well . . . maybe not.”

  “I gave him Full Air Horns in the face. I parted his hair, flattened his ears, rattled his teeth, blew his socks off.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the only one wearing blood.”

  I towered over him and gave him a worldly smirk. “That’s right, Drover, and I wear it proudly. Do you know what we call this?”

  “Well, let’s see. A bloody nose?”

  “No.”

  “Uh . . . lacerations and hemorrhaging?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let me think. Uh . . . facial trauma?”

  I glared down into the emptiness of his eyes. “You’ve missed the whole point, Drover, and please stop showing off and using big words. Nobody is fooled by your childish expeditionism.”

  “You mean ‘exhibitionism’?”

  “I meant exactly what I said.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I don’t know what I said, but I said it and I meant every word of it.”

  “It was a big word.”

  “Of course it was a big word. Do you think I’d waste my time with scrawny little words? No sir. We should all strive to enlarge our respective vocabularies, Drover, and it wouldn’t hurt you to use a big word every now and then.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Boy, I sure get confused. I thought you just told me . . .”

  “Never mind. Let’s return to my original question.” I pointed to the scars on my nose. “What is another name for this?”

  “Well . . . wreckage?”

  “We’re out of time and you’ve failed the quiz. I’m sorry.”

  “You couldn’t help it.”

  “Thanks. It’s called the Red Batch of Courage, because it takes a batch of courage for a dog to accumulate all these scars. One of these days, maybe you’ll win some.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “What? Speak up, you’re muttering.”

  “I said . . . oh boy. Scars. Blood. Scabs. Just what I always wanted on my nose.”

  I gave him a little pat on the back. “It’ll come, just be patient. And always remember, Drover: It’s not the size of the fight in the kite that matters; it’s the size of the fog in the dog.”

  He stared at me.

  “Hello? Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t get it.”

  “That’s as clear as I can make it, son. When you grow up, many of life’s mysteries will be re­vealed. Until then, just watch me and study your lessons.”

  At that very moment, my lecture was brought to an end by Little Alfred, who had gone to the back door and was holding it open for us. “Come on, doggies, wet’s go inside the house.”

  I went bounding across the yard and joined up with our little pal. But then I noticed that Drover was hanging back. “Hey, come on. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, we’re not allowed in the house. Sally May . . .”

  “Sally May’s gone and she’s left her son in command.”

  “That’s scary.”

  “And besides, Slim is sick and needs us to nurse him back to health.”

  “Yeah, but what if Sally May comes home and finds us? She might cut off our tails with a butcher knife.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Drover, please. You already have a stub tail, so you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Yeah, but . . . what if she cuts off our heads?”

  “Then your two ends will match. You’ll have a stub head to go with your stub tail. Now come on and quit whining.”

  At last he joined us—not joyfully, I must say, but casting glances over his shoulders and looking as guilty as the cad who ate the canary . . . or whatever it is. He didn’t look happy about entering the house, is the point.

  I knew what to do when we got inside. I went straight to an old rug on the floor of Sally May’s utility room—went straight to it and flopped down. Do you see the importance of this gesture? Maybe not. Let me explain.

  See, when we dogs are invited into the house—which is very rarely—we feel honored to be there, and the way we express our feelings and so forth is to establish ourselves in the utility room, which is also known as the “mud room,” the “laundry room,” and the “take-off-the-dirty-boots room.” It’s the one room in the house, don’t you see, that isn’t as clean as all the other rooms in the house, which means that it’s sort of a halfway chamber between the dirty outdoors and the clean inside.

  When we dogs show a willingness to set up shop in the utility room, it sort of shows our great respect for the, uh, rest of the house. It says to our human friends, “Hey, we know we’re just dirty dogs and we don’t deserve to lie on the nice carpets or sleep in the chairs or do any of that other stuff that a dog might, uh, find pretty appealing.”

  It says, “Hey, this is great, no dog could ask for more, we’re perfectly happy to be out here with the . . . well, dirty boots and soiled laundry and the cold draft that always seems to be coming under the back door.”

  You get it now? It impresses our human friends when they see a dog who’s happy with simple gifts. Nobody likes a dog who has no class or manners, who goes loping through the house the minute he gets inside, as though he owns the place.

  These little things are important.

  The other side of the deal is that, once we’ve established ourselves as Happy Dogs in the Utility Room, we can always . . . how can I say this? I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression. See, all of Life’s Situations consist of a Plan A and a Plan B. The Happy Dogs Skinario is your basic Plan A, and once we’ve taken care of Plan A, we can go to work on, heh heh, Plan B.

  At this point, I can’t reveal the exact nature of Plan B. I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone to think . . . you’ll just have to figure it out for yourself. And I’ll bet you’ll never guess the true nature of our Plan B.

  Okay. We were inside the house, out of the cold wind and swirling dust and so forth, and we were the happiest two dogs in the whole entire world. We couldn’t have asked for more. We couldn’t have dreamed or hoped for better. Being in a warm clean house was the fulfilament of our fondish wisses . . . fondest wishes, I should say, and even if Little Alfred had invited us to go deeper into the house—nay, even if he had begged us to venture into the warmer, more comfortable rooms of the house—it would have been our duty to turn him down.

  “No thanks, kid. We’re dogs. We know our place. We know your ma and understand her feelings about dogs in the house. No, the utility room is good enough for us.”

  So there we were, as happy as two clams in . . . something. A pot of clam chowder, I suppose, although if I were a clam . . .

  So there we were, as happy as two dogs could be, and I want the record to show that we re­mained in this State of Utmost Contentment for . . . oh, five minutes or so. Ten minutes. A long long time. It seemed hours, actually, because . . . well, it was kind of boring out there, and also the floor was cold.

  And I want the record to show that it was Drover who made the first move. All at once he raised his head. “Hank, I’m thirsty.”

  I raised my head and gave him a scowl. “How could you be thirsty? We’re almost in winter, it’s cold outside.”

  “I know, but I’m thirsty. I’m dying for a drink.”

  “Why didn’t you get a drink outside? We have two stock tanks down at the corrals and two miles of Wolf Creek. That’s where dogs are supposed to drink.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know I was thirsty back then. And it was too far to walk.”

  “Oh brother.”

  “You’re not thirsty?”

  “No. Well, maybe a little, but I have something called Iron Discipline. I can wait.”

  “Boy, not me. I’ve got a terrible thirst, but where would a dog get a drink in here?”


  “I don’t know, Drover, nor do I care. Please stop complaining and try to show . . . hmm, I wouldn’t mind a little drink myself, come to think of it.”

  I pushed myself up on all-fours and crept to the door that led into the kitchen and the rest of the house. Alfred was nowhere in sight, but I could hear voices coming from the living room. I lifted one ear and monitored the conversation.

  Alfred: “How do you feel now, Swim?”

  Slim: “I feel like warmed-over chicken manure. I ain’t got any energy and all I want to do is sleep.”

  Alfred: “I bet you’ve got the measles.”

  Slim: “I ain’t got the measles.”

  Alfred: “What about all those wed spots?”

  Slim: “It’s allergies. It’s got nothing to do with measles. Let me sleep another hour. I’ll be okay. Stay in the house and don’t do anything foolish. And keep them dogs outside.”

  Alfred: “Okay, Swim.”

  As I was monitoring this conversation, I began to notice that . . . hmmm, my mouth was very dry, and all of a sudden I was dying for a drink of water. It’s odd, how a sudden thirst will come upon a dog in the middle of winter, a time when you wouldn’t expect us to get thirsty. I suppose it comes from our busy schedules. I mean, in the wintertime a guy forgets to drink water, and then all at once . . .

  I left the kitchen door and moved a few steps to the east. Here was another door which led into a small dark room. I peered into the gloom. All at once my nose, which is a very sensitive smellatory device, began picking up faint traces of . . . water.

  Hey, we were making some progress. Drover had thought you couldn’t find water inside the house. Ha. What did he know? I had found water because I’d had enough ambition to get up off my duff and go looking. Drover, on the other hand, had been content to stay on the rug and whine about it.

  I tiptoed into the darkened room, following my nose toward the unmistable scent of fresh water. After going ten or twelve steps, I found the source. It was . . . it appeared to be a spring, a natural spring of fresh sparkling water—right there in the house!