Big Hairy Deal

by Steve Vernon

  Then I walked to the door and I stepped on outside of the giant pink Winnebago.

  And then I walked right up towards Old Shuck.

  “Hey Shuck,” I said. “Good dog. Good old dog.”

  Old Shuck looked at me like I was wearing two heads – and both of them were made out of freshly-cooked pot roast.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t really sure if he wasn’t right.

  Don’t worry – the voice of Warren kind of ghost-repeated itself in the back of my ears somewhere behind my imagination and just left of my sense of wonder – everything is going to be all right.

  I sure hoped that Warren’s ghost voice knew exactly what it was talking about.

  Chapter Twenty Three – Hair of the Dog

  “Good dog,” I said, making old maiden aunt sounds. “Yes you are, yes you really are – Old Shuck is a good, good dog.”

  I wished for a rubber ball – or even just a good-sized hand grenade.

  Old Shuck just kept on staring at me as if I were wearing a set of freshly-ground hamburger pants. I figured that he had already had most of Bigfoot as a main course and now he was considering me as a possible dessert to have after he had finished his Bigfoot banquet.

  But I had to try and do something.

  “Good Shuck,” I said. “Good Old Shuck.”

  “Mmmphbubshumrumahbuan…” Coyote mumbled from underneath Old Shuck’s mighty purple hind end.

  “Would you mind subtitling that?” I asked. “Or at the very least you could try mumbling a little bit louder.”

  Coyote wiggled his mouth just free enough underneath of the heavy purple dog butt to make himself heard.

  “I said that his full name is Shukramarama,” Coyote suggested. “Remember, like in the story I told you?”

  Old Shuck’s ears perked up at the sound of that name, just a little.

  Of course, he might have had a flea or a tick or a nuclear bore-worm nibbling on his left lower ear lobe – but I took that ear perk to be a good sign.

  “Good dog,” I repeated. “Good old Shukramarama.”

  Old Shuck grinned a little – one of those big and happy dog grins that just naturally makes you want to reach down and skritch his ears.

  Which I did.

  I wasn’t all that happy about skritching his ears but I figured that if I was going to have any sort of a chance of actually rescuing Bigfoot – this was it.

  I skritched those big purple ears really good, working my fingers into each skritch. His hide felt thick – the sort of thick of a walrus hide – or at the very least what I imagined a walrus hide would feel like – if I ever got close enough to a walrus to skritch one.

  Old Shuck started to thump his big old purple tail happily.

  “Ouch,” Coyote mumbled.

  And then Old Shuck made the kind of dog sound that you don’t EVER want to hear your own dog making. Faster than you could say “What elephant died in this garbage can”, a weird funky odor that smelled a little bit like a road-killed landfill drifted up from the vicinity of Old Shuck’s big thumping tail.

  Meaning he farted.

  “Shoot me,” Coyote pathetically whimpered from below Old Shuck’s thumping funky tail. “Somebody just please shoot me now.”

  “Good dog,” I repeated, trying my best not to choke upon the penetrating reek of Old Shuck’s way-past-foul dog farts. “Good old Shukramarama.”

  I saw that Bigfoot’s feet seemed to be sticking out just a little further from Old Shuck’s mouth – so I guess maybe my skritching was relaxing Old Shuck’s mouth grip.

  “Are you still alive in there?” I asked.

  Bigfoot must have heard me asking, because he wiggled his big fuzzy toes just as frantically as was possible.

  “You might want to give thanks that he has already swallowed your nostrils,” I said. “The funking farty reek is awfully penetrating out here.”

  That was right about the time when I felt what seemed to be a long smooth snake slithering slowly over my left ankle.

  I looked down and I saw that The Prophet had quietly unspooled a long pink metal cable from a hidden winch that appeared to be connected to a spot located somewhere beneath his front bumper.

  “Good dog,” I repeated for the third time. “Good old Shukramarama.”

  I knelt down and I picked up the cable and then I tied as solid of a knot as I could – looping the cable around both of Bigfoot’s big hairy ankles.

  It wasn’t anything remotely close to a Turkish half and a half hitch reef dragon-tying knot but I did the best that I could, pausing every now and then for another good dog, good Shukramarama and a couple of more heart-felt head-skritches.

  “What’s going on out there?” Coyote mumble-asked from beneath Old Shuck’s bottom end. “I can’t see a single thing.”

  “Can you drive yourself in reverse?” I carefully called back over my shoulder to The Prophet. “Is that possible?”

  “Not without anyone at the wheel,” The Prophet replied. “That’s not how the magic works.”

  I was getting awfully tired of hearing him tell me that.

  Did he expect me to do EVERYTHING for him?

  “Well can you roll this cable back up by yourself?” I asked patiently. “Is that doable?”

  “I can do that.” The Prophet said.

  “Well, be ready,” I said. “And roll fast.”

  I reached down and I picked up a stick, leaned back and in one motion hurled that piece of pine branch about as far out into the woods as I could manage to throw it.

  “FETCH!” I shouted.

  Now I would have looked like ten miles of a long stupid road if Old Shuck hadn’t gone and done what I had hoped he would go and do – but he went ahead and did it.

  He sort of made a determined two foot punch from off of the flattest portion of Coyote’s head, opening his mouth wide in an honest display of pure canine happiness.

  And as he opened his mouth I yelled “PULL!” and then The Prophet started reeling that magic retractable winch cable right back on in.

  Bigfoot came out of Old Shuck’s wide open big purple mouth like a nine foot long strand of furry unwashed spaghetti in reverse.

  He arced skyward, looking a little like a big furry salmon jumping from out of a deep purple stream, banshee-howling as he jumped. Then he landed with a big furry ka-thump at my feet, looked up at me once and blinked hard twice before The Prophet reeled him in – only knocking over two stumps and three trees on his way back to the mystic pink travel home.

  “Ouch,” said Coyote, slowly getting to his feet. “I bet that hurt him a whole lot worse than it hurt me.”

  At that point Old Shuck galloped back towards me, spit the pine stick out into the dirt at my feet and licked my face clean with his long purple tongue.

  At which point I leaned over into a nearby sugarplum bush and emptied out about half of what was left of my breakfast.

  Followed shortly by the other half.

  I’m not saying it was pretty – but at least it smelled a whole lot better than Old Shuck’s horrifying butt-funk gas.

  But not by much.

  Chapter Twenty Four – Word Choice is Awfully Important

  Bigfoot held the bearskin beneath Old Shuck’s mighty purple nose.

  From where I was standing that bearskin smelled a little like the leftover breakfast that I had just emptied out of my stomach and into the sugar plum bushes a short time ago – but Old Shuck seemed to like it just fine.

  “Come on you big purple Barney dog,” Bigfoot said. “Come on and get yourself a really good snoot full.”

  The big purple death dog snorted the bear pelt daintily.

  And then he sneezed about a bucket and a half full of giant green and purple dog snot all over Bigfoot.

  “Maybe he is allergic to you,” Coyote suggested. “I have heard of such things.”

  “It might help if you actually used his real name,” I added. “Rather than
calling him Barney. He really doesn’t look a thing like that big purple television dinosaur.”

  Bigfoot wasn’t impressed by my suggestion.

  “Maybe he’s actually allergic to stupidity,” Bigfoot replied. “How about if you two stand back up and let this big fellow breathe?”

  “Listen to the fur ball talk,” The Prophet said. “I’m betting that big old Sasquatch couldn’t even SPELL the word allergic if he had it written out in front of his eyeballs.”

  Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if I could spell allergic without using a “k” or two – but I didn’t bother saying so. I was way too busy watching the effect that bewitched bear pelt seemed to have on Old Shuck.

  He growled at that Spirit Bear pelt.

  “I don’t think he likes the smell of that bear pelt all that much,” Coyote said.

  “I don’t care WHAT he likes,” Bigfoot said. “He is a hunting dog and that means that he is supposed to be able to hunt.”

  Old Shuck put his big purple paw over his head, like he didn’t want to listen to what ever Bigfoot had to say.

  Bigfoot grabbed Old Shuck by his ear and held his face up close to his own – close enough to either lick or bite, which I thought was quite a risk. Then he shoved the bear skin back under the big purple dog’s nose.

  “Fetch!” Bigfoot said.

  Old Shuck growled a little deeper in his throat.

  “I don’t think that grabbing onto his ear is all that good of an idea,” Coyote pointed out. “He doesn’t really seem to like it all that much.”

  “Here, kid,” Bigfoot said – holding the spirit bear’s pelt in my direction. “You seem to have better luck with this Death Dog than I do.”

  “It might be because Adam behaves a whole lot nicer than you do,” Coyote pointed out. “Did you ever stop and think of that?”

  “If I want to hear from you I’ll pull your tail like a bell rope,” Bigfoot warned. “And you can just say ding.”

  “Like I said,” Coyote added, tucking his tail under all four of his feet. “A whole lot nicer than you know how.”

  I held the bear skin in my hands like it was a peed-on blanket that had been forgotten behind somebody’s bed and left to grow mildew.

  And then I stepped a little closer.

  “Hey Old Shuck,” I said. “Old Shuckster, good old Shukramarama.”

  Old Shuck panted happily and thumped his tail in the dirt, rising up a dust cloud about the size and density of Vancouver Island squared fourteen times a hundred.

  He really seemed to like me.

  I knew what was happening.

  You’d have to be ten kinds of stupid not to recognize what Shukramarama was really looking at when he saw me.

  He was seeing Little Billy standing there – the boy that Old Shuck had died for. He was seeing Little Billy as a kid again, and ready to play.

  That was fine by me. The truth was I had begun to grow a big old soft spot, right directly in the center of my heart for this ugly purple Death Dog. If he wanted me to be his Little Billy – well that was fine as fine could be.

  “Sniff on this,” I told Old Shuck. “Come on boy.”

  Old Shuck took himself a sniff.

  He panted happily, big purple gobs of dog-drool hanging down his big fuzzy chin.

  Then he took himself another big old sniff.

  Then he barked.

  “I think he’s got the scent,” Bigfoot said happily. “What did I tell you? That was easy. I knew the kid could do it.”

  I rolled my eyes a little.

  “Shut up and the let the kid do his work and stop trying to take the credit for something you had no idea would happen,” Coyote growled. “Adam knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  I smiled at that.

  “Come on Old Shuck,” I said, shaking the pelt of the Spirit Bear. “Fetch now, fetch!”

  Old Shuck opened his purple garbage truck mouth and took the pelt away from me and then he spat the pelt back down at my feet.

  He looked up and panted happily, wagging his tail and waiting patiently for another skritch.

  I guess that proper word choice when dealing with a giant purple Death Dog can be AWFULLY important.

  “You fetched it all right,” I said, giving him the reward of his waited-for head skritch. “Good old Shuck, good old Shuckaramarama.”

  “It might be you want to rephrase your command,” Coyote suggested. “Remember – good grammar is the difference between “Let’s eat Granddad” and “Let’s eat, Granddad.”

  “Yeah, and it might be that you just might like to take your own advice for yourself,” Bigfoot added. “And just shut up for a bit and let the kid do his stuff.”

  So I picked up the Spirit Bear pelt, and I gave it another shake and carefully held it back under Old Shuck’s nose.

  Old Shuck gave another big old sniff.

  “All right Old Shuck,” I said. “Good old Shuckeramarama.”

  I thought very carefully about what I was going to say next.

  And then it came to me.

  I don’t think that I thought of it, actually. It was more like I heard someone inside of my brain whispering the word to me – somebody that sounded a whole lot like my stepdad Warren.

  I knew the three words that I had to say.

  I gave Old Shuck another sniff of Spirit Bear – and then I said those three words.

  “Let’s go hunting,” I said.

  Old Shuck barked happily and then took off running.

  The hunt was on.

  “Let’s go,” Bigfoot yelled.

  We climbed into The Prophet and took off with a beat of his mighty pink wings – and we took off following directly behind Old Shuck from high above.

  I could see him running down below, from my window seat. He looked like a giant fat grape-colored tick, bouncing through the woodland.

  “He’s almost to the shoreline,” Coyote said. “I sure he hope he can swim.”

  “He’ll most likely dog paddle,” Bigfoot replied.

  Only it turned out that Old Shuck did not need to swim.

  He reached the water and then he just kept on running, like the Atlantic Ocean was nothing more than a great big playground.

  “How does he do that?” I asked.

  “Magic would be my guess,” Bigfoot said.

  “The next time you’re talking to that big purple dog,” Coyote suggested. “Why don’t you try asking him just exactly how he does it?”

  We followed – flying above Old Shuck for about an hour.

  We had flown practically halfway across the Gulf of St. Lawrence and were heading for the Labrador coastline when the Raven decided to attack.

  Chapter Twenty Five – Wayward Sky High Domino Tipping Match

  Raven hit us from above – diving down from out of the clouds and making a loud and dangerous thump on the top of the big pink Winnebago that sounded a little like a kettle drum beating up on a peal of rolling thunder in the middle of a twenty-one gun salute.

  “Holy old baldheaded moose stink,” Bigfoot bellowed. “What’s raining down on the tin roof privy now?”

  “HANG ON TO YOUR TOOTSIE ROLLS!” the Prophet yelled. “WE’RE GONNA ROLL OUT OF CONTROL!”

  Which is exactly what happened – we rolled out of control – the pink Winnebago nearly turning over in mid-air, rolling sideways like a great pink man-eating whale shark, drunk and dizzy on way too much tabasco sauce.

  I fell over into a sort of a slow-motion somersault across the back of Coyote who was busy struggling with the Warren-cocoon which had slid across the floor of the pink Winnebago and had slammed into Coyote’s stomach.

  Why don’t you try saying that five times fast?

  KA-BANG!

  Raven hit us again, this time even harder.

  I never dreamed that a stupid bird could be that strong. I mean what was a bird, really? Nothing but wings and feathers and whole lot of squawk – but who would have t
hought a bird could hit like this one could.

  “That Raven is beginning to irritate me,” Bigfoot growled. “I’ve got to get out of here and get my hands on that Raven and instruct him in the fine art of chicken plucking. Somebody better take this wheel from me now.”

  Only I was way too busy trying to hang onto Warren.

  “Don’t let go of my steering wheel!” the Prophet yelled back. “We will fall like a fast-frozen rock if I don’t have anyone steering.”

  BOOM!

  “We’re going to fall anyway!” Bigfoot yelled.

  The big pink Winnebago tilted and the Warren-cocoon slid towards the door – which had swung open and was hanging from its bright pink hinges.

  “Bow-woo! Bow-woo! Bow-woo!”

  I could see Old Shuck standing in the middle of the Gulf of St. Lawrence on top of the back of a less-than-happy humpback whale barking in sheer frustrated desperation. From all the way this far up Old Shuck looked like a tiny little grape Chihuahua but his bark carried just fine. I guess he wanted to get at that Raven nearly as badly as Bigfoot did – but both Bigfoot and Old Shuck were way too far away to help me much.

  I caught a glimpse of Raven as he flew by the flapping Winnebago door.

  He was having himself a fine old time – laughing like he had inhaled about thirty-eight tanks full of pure undiluted giggle gas. I guess he thought we looked pretty funny – spinning out of control the way we were.

  “SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING!” Bigfoot yelled at no one in particular.

  BOOM-BA-BOOM!

  Raven hit us one more time again.

  The Warren-cocoon bounced a little and began to roll a little bit more – steadily moving towards the open Winnebago door. I made a sort of a clumsy leap for it and reached my hands out just far enough and hard enough to sink my fingers into the skin of the Warren-cocoon.

  I could feel Warren’s life-force pulsing into my fingertips. I wasn’t sure if I was soaking him up or if he was soaking me up. I could feel something that was yellow and blue and green and tasted like a cold rusted penny and I might have even peed my pants a little and I knew that I was more scared than I had ever been in my lifetime but I hung onto the Warren-cocoon like it was the last thing that I would ever do.

  And then I heard Warren talking to me – like he was talking in another room a thousand miles away over a very bad telephone connection.