The Case of the Car-Barkaholic Bog

by John R. Erickson

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Ralph, you have trouble waking up, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. I sure hope he got out.”

  “Who?”

  “My pa. He never could swim a lick.”

  “Oh, I see now. You thought I said pa, when actually I said paw.” I paced away from him. “Ralph, this is your lucky day.”

  “Thanks, but it looks like night to me.”

  “That’s true, but not for long. Day follows night.”

  “Not if you sleep all the time, it don’t.”

  “Ralph, I’m sure you remember me.” I waited. He yawned. “I say, I’m sure you remember me.”

  “Oh sure. You’re Clyde.”

  “Uh, no, not Clyde.”

  “Harvey?”

  “No.”

  “Spot?”

  I chuckled. “You’re still asleep, Ralph, which explains why you don’t recognize me. Walk around, give yourself a nice stretch, and it’ll all come back to you.”

  He rolled out of bed, jacked himself up to a standing position, and gave his head a shake. Those big ears popped like a bullwhip.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, after a yawn, “now I remember.”

  “I thought you would.”

  “You served time here once, didn’t you?”

  “That’s correct, Ralph. I had been arrested on suspicion of hydrophobia.”

  “Uh-huh, yup, it’s all coming back now.”

  “It was a pretty scary experience, actually, and I came within a whisker of getting my head chopped off and sent to the state lab in Houston.”

  “Austin. State lab’s in Austin. Uh-huh, it’s coming back now.”

  “I thought it would. A guy doesn’t forget the dogs he served time with on Death Row. It’s a very intense kind of experience.”

  “Uh-huh.” He walked around in a circle, then went to the water bowl and took a drink. His toenails clicked on the cement when he walked. “Yup, I’ve got you pegged now. Your name’s Oscar. It took me a minute.”

  I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. “Ralph, your memory’s not so good. Not only am I not Oscar, I don’t even know a dog named Oscar.”

  “Huh. I sure struck out on the names. What day is this?”

  “Monday. Thursday. What’s time to a dog, Ralph?”

  He sat down and began scratching his ear. “Just thought I’d ask. Your name wouldn’t be Rocky, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t be, and come to think of it, I’m sorry that I went to the trouble to come by and say hello. My name, for your information, is Hank the Cowdog. And I happen to be Head of Ranch Security on a place south of town.”

  “Huh.”

  “It’s a big outfit, huge outfit. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Four Sixes Ranch, the Pitchfork, and the JA?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, my outfit is bigger than all those put together.”

  “I’ll be derned.”

  “And I’m Head of Ranch Security.”

  “Oh yeah, I thought maybe that was you.”

  “Thanks, Ralph, but I’m afraid that won’t make up for the damage you’ve already done. I can see that I’m not welcome here, and it just so happens that I have many warm and loyal friends in this town and I think it’s time for me to leave.”

  I got up to leave but didn’t walk very fast.

  “Oh, don’t be that way. You walked in here and woke me up, and I’m a little slow on the gitty-up. I guess I’ve been asleep for three days straight.”

  “Asleep for three days! Don’t you ever do anything around here besides sleep?”

  He yawned. “Oh, yeah. Sometimes I get me a drink of water, and every once in a while I’ll eat a bite.”

  “You must be bored out of your mind. Don’t you ever wish you could do something?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Play ball?”

  “Hurts my teeth.”

  “Chase cats? Hunt rabbits?”

  He stared at me with those mournful basset eyes. “You know, I chased a cat once, but it took so much energy, I never did it again. I guess you could say that I don’t have a whole mountain of ambition.”

  I began pacing back and forth in front of him. “Yes, and that’s too bad, Ralph. I mean, in many ways you’re not such a bad guy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But here you are, lolling around and sleeping in the middle of the night, doing nothing with your life, wasting your talents in a two-bit jailhouse, and while you’re doing nothing, Life goes right on without you.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Ralph, it breaks my heart to see you like this—too lazy even to remember the name of a friend!”

  “Yup.”

  “What you need is a project, an important mission, something to live for.”

  “Yup. I never had any of that.”

  “Exactly.” Suddenly, I stopped pacing and whirled around to face him. “Ralph, I’ve never made a habit of giving away free advice or butting into the lives of other dogs.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But in your case, I’m going to make an exception.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “You’ve made such a mess of your life, you’ve become such a lout and a slug that I’m going to take time out of my busy schedule and help you make something of yourself.”

  “Now hold on just a minute . . .”

  “It won’t be easy, Ralph, I’ll tell you that up front. But the hardest part was deciding that you wanted to change and do something different with your life.”

  “Uh-huh, but . . .”

  “And with that behind us . . .” I walked over and laid a paw on his shoulder. “I just happen to have the perfect deal for you, Ralph, a top-secret mission to save a lady in distress.”

  “I’m kind of busy.”

  “And her four lovely children . . .”

  “Need to catch up on my sleep.”

  “. . . from a gangster-dog named Rambo. Con­gra­t­u­­lations, Ralph. You’ve been chosen, out of all the dogs in Twitchell, to take part in this mission.”

  He rolled his sad eyes around on me. “You’re awful pushy.”

  “She’s my sister, Ralph.”

  “That’s my name too.”

  “No, her name is Maggie. Your name is Ralph.”

  “That sounds better.”

  “What time does the dogcatcher come to work?”

  He yawned. “Oh, first light. Any time now.”

  “Good, great, excellent. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  I revealed my plan to him. He stayed awake through the whole thing, which was pretty good for Ralph. “He’s a Car-Barkaholic, huh? We get a lot of those guys out here. Jimmy Joe can’t stand a car-barking dog.”

  “That’s perfect, couldn’t be better. As soon as we hear Jimmy Joe coming down the road, we’ll take off.”

  “Sure sounds like a lot of trouble.”

  “Yes, Ralph, but there’s a reward in it for you.”

  His ears jumped up. “Oh yeah? Well, that’s a different deal. I thought maybe you was just mooching off of a friend.”

  I chuckled at that. “Not at all, Ralph. This re­ward will be something special.”

  I didn’t have time to tell him that his reward would be waiting for him in heaven, because at that very moment my ears picked up the sound of a vehicle coming down the caliche road.

  Chapter Eleven: Attacked on the Street by Rambo

  Sure enough, it was Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher, coming to work, and the moment had arrived to put our plan into action. I nosed open the cell door and went zooming away from Death Row.

  Ralph followed—slowly. “Ralph, you’re going to have to pick up the pace.”

  “I’m a-tryin’.”

  “Aft
er all, this is a paying job. We expect you to perform as a professional.”

  “My legs are awful short, and I might be a smidgen overweight.”

  “We’re not interested in excuses, Ralph, just an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”

  “Could we talk some more about the pay?”

  “We’re out of time for questions, Ralph, sorry.”

  “Oh shucks.”

  We loped away from the dog pound, heading west and north toward town. When we passed Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher’s pickup, he slammed on his brakes, jumped out, and started yelling.

  “Ralph, come here, boy! Ralph! Why you flop­eared idiot, come here!”

  That was our cue to pick up the pace. We moved from a lope to a gallop. That made Jimmy Joe mad, as I knew it would, and he started yelling and fuming and jumping up and down. We kept running. Jimmy Joe jumped back into his pickup, spun around in a half-circle, and came roaring down the road after us.

  I must admit—this might come as a shock, so prepare yourself—I must admit that I experience a certain wicked pleasure in running away from someone who’s calling me. I know that sounds awful, but it’s true, and the madder and louder the caller gets, the more I feel that exhilarating rush of . . . something.

  Power. Glory. Freedom. Independence.

  Maybe you have to be a dog to understand how much fun it is to be a naughty dog, but take my word for it: it’s one of the greatest thrills this old life has to offer.

  I felt it, and so did Ralph. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him grinning—and you don’t see basset hounds doing that very often.

  “Hey Ralph, you’re grinning. What’s the deal?”

  “Oh, it’s kind of fun to get chased by the dogcatcher again. It’s been a long time.”

  “See, what did I tell you? You’ve been missing out on the best of Life’s experiences.”

  “I reckon so, if Jimmy Joe don’t wring my neck for running off.”

  “Don’t dwell on the little things, Ralph. It’s your neck and you have a right to do with it what you wish.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t need to get it wrung.”

  By that time we had come to Main Street. Crossing a busy street was no big deal for me. I just waited for a break in the traffic and darted across to the other side.

  But it wasn’t so easy for Ralph. If you recall, he had mentioned something about his short legs. That had been no exaggeration. He did in fact have short legs, and “darting” across streets wasn’t something he did particularly well.

  With his short basset legs and compact body, and with his complete lack of ambition, Ralph never darted anywhere. He walked out into the middle of the street and stood there while cars went whizzing past. Several of them had to swerve to miss him, and they honked their horns.

  And Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher was closing in on us. I yelled, “Ralph, get out of the dadgum street and come on! We’ve got things to do and places to go.”

  He came clicking across to the other side, and that grin I had noticed before had gotten bigger. “Boy, I’d almost forgot how much fun it was to stop traffic. I may never sleep again.”

  “Have fun on your own time, Ralph. We’ve got a job to do.”

  We left Main Street and headed west. When we came to the first alley, we made a right turn. Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher did the same. He was getting closer. We sprinted several blocks down the alley. I could hear him yelling at Ralph over the roar of the pickup motor.

  When we came to the end of the second or third block, I don’t remember which, we left the alley, cut across an unfenced yard, and made our way to the street that ran between and in front of two rows of houses.

  We gained a little ground on Jimmy Joe by cutting across the yard, but he was still behind us. And still mad. In other words, my plan was working to perfection. Now, all I had to do was lead him past the house where Rambo stayed.

  Oops, I sort of revealed my plan there, but I guess it would be all right to declassify some of the details at this point. I couldn’t reveal it sooner because I couldn’t risk blowing the mission, don’t you see.

  Okay, here’s the plan, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. Promise? Here goes.

  Phase One required that I recruit Dog-Pound Ralph for the assignment, because without success on Phase One, there would have been no Phase Two.

  Phase Two called for Ralph and me to run away from the dog pound, timing our departure so that we would pass Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher just as he came to work.

  Phase Three was a little riskier than the others because control of this phase passed out of my control, so to speak. The Master Plan called for Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher to chase Ralph into town.

  Let me pause here. If you’re keeping score on this mission, you should have made checkmarks beside Phases One, Two, and Three, unless your book belongs to the library and then you’d better keep your checkmarks to yourself, lest the librarian catch you and put checkmarks on your fanny.

  Beware of angry librarians.

  Anyways, we had passed through Phases One, Two, and Three and had cleared them all. All that remained was Phase Four, the most important of all. Our primary objective in Phase Four was to . . . well, you’re fixing to find out.

  We were running down the street, see, with the dogcatcher right behind us. This was new territory for me—the street-side of the neighborhood. I knew the alley-side fairly well because I had always been an alley-and-backyard kind of dog myself, never had spent much time fooling around in front yards and front porches.

  And let me tell you something. The world changes when you go from the back alley to the front street. I mean, you go from trash cans and weeds and unpainted fences, to neat yards and clean porches and house fronts that have been painted and kept up.

  It’s the same world but it sure doesn’t look the same.

  Well, we sprinted down the street until we came to a small, junky-looking house in the middle of the block. I had a feeling that this might be the place.

  And when I heard a double-clutching diesel truck come roaring out of the backyard, I KNEW it was the right place. It wasn’t actually a diesel truck, see, just looked like one and sounded like one.

  It was Rambo. He came loping out of Maggie’s backyard like a big racehorse, and his bark rattled windows all over the neighborhood.

  “A-ROOF, A-ROOF, A-ROOF-A!!”

  That bark not only rattled windows, it rattled me, especially when I noticed that Rambo’s ears were up and his eyes were aimed in my direction.

  Ralph was a few steps behind me, and he too saw what was coming our way. “Holy cow, is that a big dog or a little horse?”

  “That’s the guy we’re going to take out, Ralph.”

  “Not if I have a heart attack, we won’t.”

  “Don’t have a heart attack, Ralph. We’ve reached the most critical phase of the entire mission.”

  “If that dog catches up with us, we’ll both be critical.”

  “Just keep running, Ralph, we’ve almost . . .”

  WHOMP!

  Rambo was faster than I had supposed. I mean, you watch a Great Dane loping along and he doesn’t appear to be covering much ground. What you tend to forget is that each one of those loping strides is about ten feet long.

  And all at once he plowed into me and I was rolling down the pavement. “Keep running, Ralph, keep running!”

  “Don’t you worry about that!” he yelled over his shoulder as he sprinted past.

  Rambo started tearing at me before I even stopped rolling. “Say, cowdog, you made a big mistake, coming back on my block, and now I’m fixing to . . .” The dogcatcher’s pickup drove past. Rambo’s head shot up and his eyes went blank. “A pickup. I’ve got to have it! I can’t stand to see a pickup driving down my street! Let me at ’im!”

  I dropped from the deadly grip of his jaws. He lunged out
into the street and started chasing the pickup. Dog-Pound Ralph was ahead of him, pumping on those short legs as hard as he could. Rambo didn’t even see him, ran right over the top of him, and kept on trucking.

  When he caught up with the pickup, he snapped at the back right tire and cut loose with that bark of his: “A-ROOF, A-ROOF, A-ROOF-A!!” The pickup screeched to a halt. The dogcatcher jumped out.

  You know, one part of my plan that I hadn’t thought out very well was this: Once I had brought Rambo and the dogcatcher together, how was the dogcatcher going to catch him and load him into the cage in the back?

  See, if Jimmy Joe wasn’t able to catch that huge, ferocious monster of a dog, it would ruin my whole plan. And what if he saw Rambo’s size and decided that he had better things to do than tangle with a Great Dane?

  I hadn’t given that part much thought, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have done any good. I had done my part, and the rest was up to Jimmy Joe Dogcatcher.

  Chapter Twelve: The Plan Backfires—Almost

  Jimmy Joe got out and started walking toward Rambo. “Come here, pooch. Let me show you what happens to mutts that bark at my pickup.”

  Rambo had been trying to bite the tread off the rear tire, but when he saw the dogcatcher come around the back of the pickup, he raised his head and started to growl. Their eyes met and for several seconds they stared at each other. If you recall, Rambo had a pair of smokey eyes that would stop a train.

  Jimmy Joe turned and walked back to his pickup, opened the door, and . . . I thought he would jump in and drive away, but he didn’t. He reached in and came out with a lariat rope. As quick as a flash, he built a dog-sized loop and went around to the other side of the pickup again.

  By the time Rambo saw the rope, it was already too late. Jimmy Joe didn’t need but one throw, His hoolihan loop struck like a rattlesnake—whish, snap! And Rambo was a caught dog.

  When the loop pulled tight around his neck, his attitude changed 100 percent. He went from being the neighborhood thug who couldn’t be whipped, to just another dumb mutt who had misjudged what a former cowboy could do with a piece of twine.

  Jimmy Joe ran the home-end of his rope through the wire at the front of the cage and loaded Rambo just the way you’d load a bawky colt—pulled on the rope and spanked his behind with an elm switch. And fellers, that Great Dane loaded up!