The Quest fort the Great White Quail

by John R. Erickson

  There are no maps or charts of canyon country. When we dogs venture into this hostile region, we leave the easy life behind and hark back to the oldest, deepest instincts of our doggie ancestors, those old ones who lived and died by their noses, ears, eyes, and wits. Out there in the wilderness, a dog eats what he can catch, drinks water that he digs out of the hard ground, and takes shelter wherever he can find it.

  Most of your ordinary mutts would never set foot in such a place. Me? Actually, I kind of enjoyed . . . okay, maybe I felt a wee bit uneasy as I moved deeper and deeper into the . . . as the silence of the place closed around me and the walls of the canyons rose higher and . . .

  Anyways, as I was saying, it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten about several important meetings I needed to attend. No kidding. I hadn’t thought to, uh, check my calendar, don’t you see, and, well, these meetings never quit. Ha ha. If we’re not meeting about the ranch budget, we’re setting policy on . . . well, Rabbit Control or postal employees or you name it.

  So, yes, the office was calling me back, and with a heavy heart, I checked the location of the sun to plot my course back to . . . hmmm, the sun had disappeared behind a bank of clouds and . . . you know, we have about fifteen canyons up there and every one of them looks pretty muchly like the rest of them . . . rough, deep, spooky . . .

  Fog? Who had ordered fog? This was exactly the wrong day and time for a dense, choking, insputterable . . . who expects heavy fog in the Texas Panhandle? We’re in a semi-arid region. We get twenty-one inches of rain per year, and sometimes less than that. Fog belongs in places that have green grass, coastlines, foghorns, seagulls, and jellyfish.

  By George, all at once I had the strangest feeling that . . . gulp . . . WHERE WAS I!!! Standing inside a bubble of asparagus soup, that’s where, and I couldn’t see squat in any direction. This was ridiculous! How can a cowdog get lost on his own ranch?

  Bird dogs get lost because they have a great nose wired up to a flea’s brain. They get lost because a great nose can lead a dog into places a flea’s brain can’t get out of. They get lost because they are dumber than a box of rocks, but cowdogs never get lost on their own . . .

  Gulp.

  I reached for the microphone of my mind. “Data Control, this is Foxbat 36. We’re having a little trouble with our GPS readings. Could you help us out with that? Over.” I listened to static on the receiving unit. I spoke louder into the mike. “DC, we have a problem. We seem to have lost our satellite link. Could you crank up the power? Over.”

  I strained to hear the faint message: “ . . . lose thirty pounds in just one week, guaranteed! Ugly fat melts away from hips, thighs, and jowls. After just one week of eating plastic . . .”

  I slammed the mike back into its cradle and stared into the rolling void of fog that had become my prison cell. I was all alone on this deal and had lost all contact with the outside world. In my whole career, I had never felt so . . .

  “Help!”

  Huh? Did you hear that? Maybe not, because you weren’t there, but I heard it—a voice of distress calling out from somewhere in the depths of the fog. I fine-tuned my Earatory Scanners and homed in on the signal. Moments passed, then . . .

  “Help!”

  Holy smokes, there it was again! At that point, I activated our sending devices and began broadcasting on our Emergency Frequency.

  Would you like to see a transcript of the conversation? It’s highly classified material, but . . . oh well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go public with it. Stand by.

  NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

  RECEIVING STATION

  Fort Frijole, Arizona

  Eyes Only! No Ears, Toes, or Ankles!

  HANK: “Hello?”

  VOICE: “Hello!”

  HANK: “Are you there?”

  VOICE: “Yes! How about you?”

  HANK: “I’m here, yes.”

  VOICE: “Great! Say, this fog is really something, isn’t it?”

  HANK: “Roger that. Who are you?”

  (Long Pause)

  VOICE: “Listen, it makes me uneasy to speak to someone I’ve never met.”

  HANK: “Right, me, too. Maybe we should introduce ourselves.”

  VOICE: “Great idea. You go first.”

  HANK: “Why don’t you go first?”

  VOICE: “Well . . . I don’t even know your name.”

  HANK: “Look, tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine!”

  VOICE: “Can you give me a minute to think about that?”

  HANK: “Sure.”

  (Three-Minute Pause)

  HANK: “Hello? Are you still there?”

  VOICE: “Right, still here.”

  HANK: “What are you doing?”

  VOICE: “Well . . . not much. How about you?”

  HANK: “I’m waiting for you to identify yourself.”

  VOICE: “You know, I’d rather not.”

  HANK: “Okay, tell me this. Are you a coyote?”

  VOICE: “Oh no, not at all. How about yourself?”

  HANK: “I’m not a coyote.”

  VOICE: “Do you have any proof of that?”

  HANK: “I’m not a coyote! Come over and look.”

  VOICE: “Why didn’t I think of that? Where are you?”

  HANK: “I have no idea. Where are you?”

  VOICE: “You know, I’ve been wondering about that.”

  HANK: “How long have you been wherever you are?”

  VOICE: “I’ve been wondering about that too, actually.”

  HANK: “Okay, describe your location.”

  VOICE: “Sure, you bet. I see dirt and . . . fog.”

  HANK: “That’s terrific, dirt and fog.”

  VOICE: “Oh, and I think I’m in a sort of cave.”

  HANK: “Cave? What makes you think so?”

  VOICE: “Well, because I came into a cave and I haven’t left.”

  HANK: “Can you give me a description of the cave?”

  VOICE: “Well, it’s . . . it’s a hole . . . with a dirt floor.”

  HANK: “All holes have dirt floors.”

  VOICE: “You know, that’s a great point. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  HANK: “Wait a second. By any chance, are you a bird dog named Plato?”

  VOICE: “Why . . . yes! But how did you know?”

  HANK: “Incoherent rambling.”

  VOICE: “Excuse me?”

  HANK: “Never mind. It’s me, Hank the Cowdog.”

  VOICE: “Hank! By golly, what a small world!”

  HANK: “It’s bigger than you think, pal.”

  END OF TRANSMISSION

  Please Destroy Immediately!

  Chapter Nine: I Find the Birdly Wonder

  Okay, there it is and now you know the scoop. My Search and Rescue Mission had been a tremendous success, and against incredible odds, I had managed to find the Birdly Wonder in a deep canyon in the densest of fogs. All indications were that he was still alive and babbling.

  At this point, it appeared that only one problem remained: neither one of us had any idea where we were. Search and Rescue missions always work better when someone knows where he is, don’t you see, and, yes, this presented us with a few challenges. But I soon learned that we had a second problem, one I hadn’t expected.

  Through the fog, I heard Plato’s voice again. “Hank, what are you doing out here?”

  “Well, what do you think? I came to save you, at the request of a certain lady dog named Beulah.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Come back on that?”

  “Hank, we need to talk.”

  “We are talking.”

  “I know, but . . .” His voice trailed off into silence.

  “Hello? Plato?”

  “Hank, I can’t see yo
u right now.”

  “Well, I can’t see you either, so maybe we should try to find each other.”

  “No, you don’t understand. What I mean is . . . I don’t want to see you. And I don’t want you to see me.”

  “What!”

  “Hank, try to understand. I haven’t eaten in three days. I’ve shrunk down to skin and bones, I look horrible. I’m a bag of ribs, Hank.”

  “Yeah, and do you know why? You walked away from an easy job, a soft bed on the porch, and a dog bowl heaped with food . . . to chase birds! That’s the kind of Dumb that has no name, pal.”

  “I know, and that’s why we can’t meet. I’m so ashamed of myself ! Hank, go back, don’t waste your time with me. I’m not worth it.”

  Well, he was right about that. He wasn’t worth it, but I’d come a long way to find the dingbat and I didn’t intend to leave without him. But to find him in the fog, I would have to use trickery. I studied on it and came up with a plan.

  “Okay, Plato, have it your way. We won’t meet.”

  “Thanks, Hank, I was hoping you’d understand.”

  “But do me one favor.”

  “Anything, you name it.”

  “Tell me what causes a bird dog to leave home and start roaming.”

  For several long moments, he said nothing, then . . . “All right, Hank, I’ll try. It’s the least I can do.”

  By now, you’ve figured out my plan. See, the mutt was a jabbermouth, and I figured I might as well use his jabbering as a homing bacon. Beacon. A homing beacon, similar to the electronic signal that directs fighter aircraft back to their landing base in the dead of night.

  If I could get him talking about his dreary little life, I could follow the sound of his voice and track him through the fog. Pretty awesome, huh? You bet.

  He started talking. “Hank, all my life I’ve had this problem with . . . I think the term is ‘wanderlust.’ Is that the word?”

  “It’s your life, Plato, you choose the words.”

  “Good point. Hank, now and then, I’m seized by this irrational desire to stray, to pursue the . . . the Great White Quail.”

  I groped my way through the fog. “The Great White Quail?”

  “Right. Maybe it’s unique to the hunting breeds, I don’t know. Hank, it’s a lovely vision, an elusive dream that the next quail will be absolutely perfect, the archetype of all quail since the beginning of time.

  “I dream of finding that perfect quail, Hank, and of stalking it through miles of tall grass, and then I see myself going on point, as rigid and graceful as a statue made of . . . bronze, I think, or maybe alabaster. Yes, alabaster, Hank, gleaming white alabaster.”

  By that time, I had found the limestone cave where he was roosting. When I caught my first glimpse of him, I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing—this spotted, stick-tailed bird merchant, shrunk down to a bag of bones, sitting at the edge of the cave, staring with dreamy eyes into the swirling fog, and yapping his little heart out about his quest for the Great White Quail.

  He never saw me coming, had no idea that I had tracked him down and was standing ten feet away from him. I decided to let him finish his True Confession.

  A dark shadow passed across his face and his foppish grin disappeared. “But Hank, in my depths, I realize that my quest for the perfect bird has . . . well, social consequences. Take Beulah, for example. Hank, she’s everything a dog could ever want. She’s . . .” His eyes softened and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I can see her eyes even as we speak, and that long collie nose that expresses . . . well, the dignity of her breed. And the smile that tells us so much about the soul within. Hank, she’s the perfect woman, the perfect dog!”

  He blinked his eyes and scowled. “Hank, sometimes when I’m off on a crusade, I awaken in the night and wonder . . . why did I leave the perfect woman and go looking for the perfect quail? You can’t imagine how much anguish this has caused me!” His head sank down on his chest and he heaved a sigh. “And I have no answer. There it is, Hank. Now you know my story. Thanks for trying to help. You can leave now.”

  “Not just yet, Plato. There’s more to this story than you thought.”

  When I stepped toward him, he looked as though he had seen a ghost. His ears stood straight up and his jaw dropped three inches. “Hank! But I thought . . . you tricked me!”

  “That’s right, pal, I tricked you. As soon as this fog lifts, I’m taking you back home.”

  He dropped to the floor of the cave, covered his eyes with his front paws, and began moaning. “No, I won’t go! I’m a failure, I can’t face the shame and disgrace!” He whimpered and sniffled for a long minute, then peeked out from behind his paw. “You don’t understand any of this, do you? It must sound crazy.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it sounds as nutty as a pecan tree.”

  “I guess cowdogs don’t have any of these wild compulsions.”

  “Apparently not.” For some reason, my mouth began to water and I found myself . . . well, glancing around the cave. “You don’t have any plastic in here, do you?”

  Plato uncovered his other eye and stared at me. “Plastic?”

  “Right. You know, toys, milk jugs, bread bags,

  garden trowels . . . anything made of plastic.”

  “I don’t think so, but why do you ask?”

  “No reason, just curious.” My mouth continued to water. “Are you sure there’s no plastic in here? I mean, it doesn’t have to be huge, just something made of . . . Why are you staring at me?”

  “Sorry.” There was a moment of silence. “Hank, what’s the big deal about plastic?”

  “I’m dying of boredom, that’s all. For thirty minutes I’ve been listening to you blabber about birds and . . .” I began roaming the cave. “I need a chew! There must be something in here made of plastic.”

  “Hank, may I offer an observation?”

  “No. Keep your trap shut. I’ve got to find some plastic!”

  I stormed through the cave like a dog possessed. I don’t know what had gotten into me, but all at once I had this wild craving for . . . Nerves, that was it, and everyone knows that when a dog gets antsy, he needs to chew something, right? It was perfectly normal behavior, but you can’t expect a bird dog to understand anything normal.

  What I found on the floor of the cave was dirt, a few rocks, an old packrat nest, two rabbit skulls, and . . .

  HUH?

  Near the back of the cave, my eyes fell upon a sight that sent such a jolt of electricity down my spine, it almost burned a hole in my tail.

  Hang on to something solid. We’ve reached the scary part.

  Chapter Ten: Cannibals in the Cave!

  I froze in my tracks, turned slowly, and crept back to Plato. He was frowning and sniffing the air. “You know, Hank, there’s an odd smell in here. Have you noticed?”

  I stuck my nose in his face and whispered, “How long have you been in this cave?”

  “Well, Hank, I’d hate to guess. You know, the days run together, but I’d say maybe two or three days.”

  My eyes almost bugged out of my head. “Idiot! You’ve been in here for three days, and you didn’t notice two cannibals sleeping in the same room?”

  His mouth dropped open. “Cannibals? You can’t be serious.”

  “Buddy, I’m serious. Look for yourself!”

  He squinted his eyes toward the back of the cave, where Rip and Snort, the notorious coyote brothers, were stacked on top of each other, snoring away. Plato flinched. “Well, I hardly know what to say, Hank. You have to understand that my nose has been calibrated for quail.”

  “Yeah, and your brain has been calibrated for sawdust!”

  “Well, Hank, that seems harsh, but I can understand your feelings. And I want you to know that this is very embarrassing.” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Wh
at do you suggest at this point?”

  “Shhh, not so loud. I suggest we get out of here, while the getting is good.”

  At that very moment, Snort sat up and we got our first glimpse at his cold yellow eyes. They chilled me to the bone.

  You know, if Plato and I had carried on that conversation in normal tones, I don’t think Snort would have awakened up . . . awoken up . . . aweekened up . . . phooey. I think he might have stayed asleep. We made our big mistake in dropping our voices to a whisper.

  See, your average coyote can sleep on train tracks and never hear the train, but drop your voice to a whisper, move around on tiptoes, try to be sneaky, and BAMMO! He comes roaring out of a stuporous state with eyes wide open and fangs flashing.

  And there was Snort in all his hideous cannibal glory. After beaming us that yellow-eyed glare for a moment, he rose to his feet and—bad luck for us—stepped on his brother’s face. Rip shot straight up and rubbed his nose, and already he was in a bad mood.

  Snort looked at us and growled, “Uh! What dogs doing in coyote cavement?”

  I heard Plato draw a gasp of breath. “Hank, may I speak frankly here?”

  “Might as well.”

  “To be perfectly honest, I’m terrified of coyotes.” He crept around and hid behind me. “You do the talking, Hank, and believe me, I’ll stand behind everything you say.”

  “Yeah, I can see what you’re standing behind. Me.” I tried to hide the quiver in my voice and flashed the brothers a broad smile. “Rip, Snort! By George, it’s great to see you again! How was the Fourth of July? Big celebration, I guess—lots of kinfolks, fireworks for the kids, huh?”

  They stared at me and didn’t move a hair. I had to keep talking. “Hey Snort, did you hear the story about the cannibal who died and went to heaven? Ha ha. Oh, you’ll love this one! Want to hear it?” No emotion, not a sound. “Okay, maybe some other time. Listen, what do you guys think of this weather? What a fog, huh? Okay, you’ve been asleep, so maybe . . .”