The Case of the Deadly Ha-Ha Game

by John R. Erickson

  “Charge, bonzai! Make way, fellers, I’m coming through!”

  BONK!

  Okay, somebody had moved the window. No kidding. I had everything lined up, see, and we’re talking crosshairs right on the center of the open window, but hey, what can you do when they start moving windows? I had done all a dog could do, and you probably think that I fell back to the ground and was devoured by the cannibal brothers.

  Nope. At the last possible second, Little Alfred grabbed my left hind leg and hung on. He wasn’t stout enough to pull me through the window, but he hung on and gave me just enough time to twist around, snag the windowsill with my front paws, and haul myself up and into the house.

  Whew! Boy, that had been too close for comfort.

  Now that I was safe inside, Little Alfred leaned out the window and—you’ll be impressed by this, I sure was—he leaned out the window and spit at the coyotes. No kidding. What a fine lad! What a little hero!

  And then he yelled, “Go away and weeve my doggie awone!”

  I guess nobody had ever spit . . . spat . . . sput . . . had ever sput on them before. Sputted. They were so shocked and amazed, they turned and slinked . . . slank . . . slunk . . .

  I guess nobody had ever done that to them, so they turned to leave.

  On seeing this, I felt a surge of new energy and courage. I rushed to the window and gave them one last burst of righteous indignature. “That’s right, walk away! What a couple of losers you turned out to be. One more minute and I would have given you bums the thrashing you so richly deserved, and if you ever come back into my yard, by George, I’ll do it. And I’m not kidding!”

  Pretty impressive, huh? You bet. Why, if Alfred hadn’t caught me and held me back, there’s no telling what might have happened. Heck, I might very well have gone back out there and stomped a mudhole in their faces. I was that mad. Really.

  But it was probably a good thing that the boy held me back, before my righteous anger spilled over and caused terrible damage to the property. Just imagine the scene the next morning when Sally May went outside: coyote blood all over her grass and flowers, arms and legs and ears hanging from the trees . . .

  Anyway, he managed to hold me back until I got control of my terrible rage, and then I sent the fleabag coyotes on their way with one last stinging reply. “And what’s more, your momma wears overshoes!”

  Oops. Maybe I should have . . . they . . . well, they turned around and . . . uh . . . came back, shall we say, and now they really looked hot. Little Alfred glanced at me and I glanced at him. He said, “Maybe you shouldn’t have barked at them, Hankie.”

  Right. I had made . . . that is, a mistake had probably been made. Poor judgment had probably been used. The situation should have been, uh, left alone. But let me hasten to add that this was very abnormal behavior for coyotes, because . . . well, they just never did this kind of thing. They never, ever came up into yards or hung around houses.

  So, in a sense, we might say . . . okay, I messed up, and there they were, standing under our window again. “What Hunk say about coyote momma?”

  I swallowed hard and eased my face to the win­dow ledge. “Hey, Snort, how’s it going? I thought you guys . . .”

  “What Hunk say about coyote momma? Better have good story this time, or maybe Rip and Snort jump through window too, ho ho.”

  I turned to Little Alfred. Through wags and worried looks and other communication media, I beamed him an urgent message. “Son, I think you’d better close that window, because if you don’t, it’s liable to start leaking coyotes.”

  He nodded and reached up for the window. He grabbed it with both hands and pulled down. It didn’t move. He pulled again. It didn’t move. It was one of those old wood-framed windows, don’t you see, and sometimes they get warped.

  The boy whispered, “I can’t get it cwosed.”

  I took a deep gulp of air and poked my head outside. “Okay, guys, we’ve been talking this over in here, and we’ve decided to issue an apology. It seems that a tasteless and cruel remark was made about your mother, and tonight, right here in front of everyone, we’re going to issue a retraction. That tasteless remark should never have been made and we’re going to correct the record to read, ‘Your mother, your sweet and saintly mother, never ever wore over­shoes—not the five-buckle variety or even the pull-over kind.’ What do you say?”

  The brothers traded smirks. “Coyote momma not so sweet or saintingly. Coyote momma mean old bag.”

  “Okay, no problem. We’ll put that into the record. ‘Your momma, who is a mean old bag, never ever wore overshoes of any kind.’ How does that sound?”

  They held a whispering conference. “Sound okay, but Rip and Snort still berry mad about Potty Chicken and stupid Ha-Ha Game, and maybe sit here under window and wait for Hunk to come out, ho ho.”

  The boy and I moved away from the window. We felt some relief that the brothers weren’t going to attack the house, but it still left us with a small problem: how were Drover and I going to . . .

  Drover! Holy smokes, Little Drover was still out there in the darkness, perhaps hiding behind some bush or shrubbery, and we know about coyotes and their powerful sense of smell, right? They can track down an ant in a five-section pasture. They would find Drover and . . .

  The poor little mutt! I rushed to the window and . . . yipes, there they were, Rip and Snort, so I, uh, backed away and called, “Drover! Drover! Run for your life, son, the coyotes are still in the yard!”

  In the silence of the night, I heard his faint reply. “Help! Help!”

  My heart raced. My eyes darted from side to side. Did I dare go back out there and launch a suicidal rescue mission to find the poor little guy? Uh . . . probably not, but before I had to make a solid commitment on that deal, I realized . . .

  HUH?

  I couldn’t believe it. How had he . . . He was already inside the house and hiding under Little Alfred’s bed!

  I marched over to the bed and poked my nose under­neath. “Drover, how did you get in here before I did?”

  He gave me his patented silly grin. “Oh, hi. I just jumped through the window.”

  “And how many times do I have to tell you to hold the formation and wait for your leader to give the orders? I was out there circling the house. I could have been mauled by those mugs.”

  “Yeah, I was worried sick.”

  “Oh right, sure. Drover, sometimes I just . . . Come out from under that bed immediately.” He wormed his way out. “I must warn you, this will go into my report. For running from the field of battle, you will get five Chicken Marks.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “What? Stop muttering.”

  “I said, oh, bug juice.”

  I gave him a glare of purest steel. “Bug juice? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I wanted to say a naughty word but I knew I’d get a Chicken Mark, so I said . . . bug juice. I guess.”

  “Well, it goes down as naughty language. Now you’re up to seven Chicken Marks. Get off the floor and pay attention. I’m sorry to inform you that we’re not out of this deal yet. The coyotes have parked themselves right under the window. We’re trapped in here and can’t get out.”

  Drover grinned. “Yeah, but that’s not a problem, ’cause we’re inside the house, safe and sound.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Drover, there’s nothing safe about two dogs inside this house. Have you forgotten whose house this is?”

  “Well, let’s see. Little Alfred’s?”

  “No, wrong. It’s Sally May’s house, and what if . . .”

  At that very moment—hang on, fellers, this gets scarier and scarier—at that very moment, my ears picked up a sound in the darkness. I lifted both ears and focused. It appeared to be coming from . . . the other end of the house, in the general direction of . . .

  Gulk.

>   It sounded a whole lot like the squeaking of a bed. And then the sound of feet, slippered feet swishing across the floor. The feet were . . . coming in our direction.

  I whirled away from my nincompoop assistant and saw a look of frozen fear on Little Alfred’s face. He’d heard it too, and he whispered, “Uh-oh. My mom’s coming, and if she finds y’all dogs in here . . .”

  He didn’t need to say any more. Suddenly my whole life passed before my very eyes. Suddenly I realized that after a long and glorious career as Head of Ranch Security, my life had come down to this—a choice between diving through the open window and taking my chances with the cannibal broth­ers, or staying in the house and facing Sally May in one of her Thermonuclear Moments.

  Gulp.

  I couldn’t even imagine what she would say or do if she caught us in the house. I mean, this had happened a time or two before, us getting caught in the house, and I seemed to remember that Sally May’s last words on the subject had been, “If this ever happens again . . .”

  My mouth was terribly dry. I shot a glance at the open window. Was there a chance that the Ha-Ha Game might work one last time? I mean, it had saved our hides several times that evening and maybe . . . no, the brothers had figured it out. Leaping out the window would be sure and sudden . . .

  The footsteps were in the kitchen now, coming our way. I could almost see her face—her eyes wide and wild and flaming, coils of smoke pouring out of her nostrils, her teeth transformed into . . . into vampire teeth and . . .

  I rushed to the computer screen of my mind and typed in a desperate message: “Red Alert Emergency! Clear the lines! What the heck do we do now?”

  The message from Data Control came back in a flash: “Highway construction next seven miles. All boots ten percent off. Get rid of those ugly blemishes with turkey oil. System failure. Blub.”

  We were doomed. Data Control had failed us in our hour of greatest need.

  Chapter Twelve: A Huge Moral Victory

  I turned a pair of tragic eyes toward my little pal. For a moment, it appeared that he was frozen by fear and couldn’t speak. Then he whispered, “Get under the bed and hide!”

  We didn’t need to be told twice. In a flash, Drover and I scrambled ourselves underneath the bed. There we held our respective breaths and listened to the pounding of our respective hearts—and to the footsteps that were coming closer and closer.

  The door opened with an eerie squeak. The light came on. Through the opening between the floor and the bed, I could see a pair of feet—feet wearing pink slippers. They belonged to . . . gulp . . . Sally May.

  Then came the voice, the dreaded voice, the voice that struck fear in the hearts of all dogs and little boys. “Alfred Leroy, what are you doing up at this hour of the night, and why is your window open?”

  There was a long moment of silence. In that long terrible moment of silence, I found myself . . . well, I noticed that her feet and ankles were right there, only inches away from the end of my nose, and I know it sounds crazy, but all at once I felt this desire, this overpowering desire to . . . well, lick her on the ankle.

  It was crazy. I knew it was crazy, but sometimes we dogs get these . . . these powerful urges to do crazy things, and . . . and sometimes we can control them and sometimes we can’t. This time . . .

  Before I could get control of these impulses, my tongue shot out and . . . luff wuff muff . . . holy smokes, just as my tongue had reached out to the fully extended position, she took a step toward the window . . . and stepped on it! On my tongue, not on the window. She stepped on my tongue.

  And suddenly ten thousand pounds of tongue-crushing pressure pressed down on my tongue. My eyes bulged out. Waves of pain raced up through my mouth, down my spinebone, and out to the end of my tail. I let out a screech of pain but . . . well, nothing came out. I mean, you can’t screech when someone’s standing on your tongue. Try it sometime.

  Actually, it was lucky for me that I couldn’t screech, for a moment later she removed her foot and continued her walk to the window. “Alfred, why is your window open? What are you doing?”

  I realized that Drover was giving me a loony stare, so I whispered, “See tepped on my pung. I hope it not boken.”

  “No thanks, I’m stuffed.”

  I stared in to the vacuum of his eyes for a moment, trying to fit his words into some kind of pattern. But other things were happening and I didn’t have time to . . .

  Little Alfred said, “Mom, some coyotes came up into the yard and they’re sitting wight under my window.”

  Silence fell over the room. “Alfred, honey, coyotes don’t come that close to the house. Surely it’s the dogs, and if they’re in my yard . . .”

  “No, Mom, they’re coyotes, honest. Come wook.”

  Her feetsteps moved to the window. I heard a loud gasp. “Oh my stars, they are coyotes! Loper, come here and hurry! We’ve got . . .”

  He was already there, Loper was. I could see his bare feet on the floor, only inches away from my . . . I know it sounds crazy, but all at once . . .

  NO! I refused to yield to any more foolish impulses. Instead, I turned to Drover and whispered, “Let’s get out of here!”

  “You know, Hank, I don’t think that’s such a good . . .”

  I didn’t have time to argue. See, it had suddenly occurred to me that both Loper and Sally May were now in Alfred’s room, right? So that meant that the coats were clear for us to make a run out of there. The coast was clear, shall we say.

  I waited until Loper moved toward the window, and then, as quietly as a slithering snake, I eased my freight out of Alfred’s bedroom and set sail for . . . I didn’t know where. Anywhere. But as I was making my way through the kitchen, I suddenly realized (1) Drover, the little weenie, had disobeyed a direct order and had stayed under the bed; and (2) something in that kitchen smelled . . .

  WOW! What was that? The aroma seemed to be coming from a spot near the sink, up on the counter. Sniff, sniff. Okay, you won’t believe this. It was STEAK, waves of steakness, and all at once the pieces of the puddle began falling into place.

  Don’t you get it? Sally May had left the eve­­ning’s steak scraps sitting on a plate on the counter and . . . do you see how this was all fitting together? The evening had begun several hours before with me . . . that is, with Pete trying to steal a luscious T-bone steak, and now the Wheel of Life had come full circle and had presented me with an opportunity, a rare opportunity, to . . .

  This was meant to be. Those scraps had been left there for a purpose. I was there and the scraps were there, and this had to be more than a mere coincidence. I mean, a guy can’t fight against the power of the ocean or the roar of a storm or the mysterious workings of Fate. Life has a way of fulfilling its own plan, right? And who was I to resist the workings of . . .

  I, uh, hopped my front paws up onto the counter and peeked over the top. There it sat—a plate full of the most bodacious steak bones and steak fat I had ever seen. Yes, it was all coming clear now. I had been denied the Fabled Treasure of the Potted Chicken and here was my reward. It was meant to be. I eased my nose toward . . .

  I heard voices coming from the bedroom.

  LOPER: “Hyah, coyotes, hyah! Get on out of here, before I go for my shotgun!”

  ALFRED: “There they go. Thanks, Dad.”

  SALLY MAY: “I sure hope they don’t come back. Now, Alfred, let’s all go back to bed and get some sleep.”

  ALFRED: “Dad, can you weeve my window open? My woom’s kind of hot.”

  LOPER: “Well . . . all right, just this once, but we need to put that screen back on in the morning. I wonder how it came off.”

  ALFRED: “Oh . . . I guess the wind bwowed it . . . or somepin.”

  LOPER: “Hmmm. Well, sweet dreams.”

  I had pulled myself halfway up the counter, just far enough so that my tongue had reached the
Fabled Treasure of the Steak Scraps (it wasn’t broken after all, my tongue) and the wonderful taste of steakness was beginning to tingle its way down . . .

  Someone was coming! Could I bear to give it up, this plate of . . . Yes, I had to run for my life. I eased myself down to the floor and . . . Where could I go? I really hadn’t given that much, uh, thought, to be honest, and all at once . . .

  The utility room. Nobody would go out to the utility room in the middle of the night, would they? Heck no. I mean, the utility room was for washing clothes and pulling off dirty boots and stuff like that, and yes, it would be the safest place in the house.

  I went to Full Flames on all engines, spun my paws on the slick limoleun floor, and flew into the darkness of the utility room. There was just enough light coming from the kitchen so that I could see a pile of dirty sheets lying on the floor in front of the washing machine. Hey, that was the place for me! I nosed my way under the sheets and then went straight into a program we call Nobody’s Here.

  I shut down all breathing mechanisms, lay as still as a log, and waited for them to go back to . . . footsteps? Footsteps coming into the utility room? That was impossible, outrageous! Why would anyone go out into the utility room in the middle of the . . .

  The footsteps came closer and closer. They stopped right beside me. Had I been discovered? I held my breath and waited. Then the silence, the terrible silence, was fractured by a man’s voice.

  “Boy, something sure stinks in here.”

  It was Loper. At that point, I dared to peek one eye out of a fold in the sheets. There he stood, towering above me like a . . . something. A huge scowling tree. He sampled the air with his nose and shook his head.

  He yawned and started toward the door into the kitchen. So far, so good. But then . . . he tripped over the pile of laundry, the very pile of laundry in which I was hiding, and in the process, he stepped on my tail!

  Oh pain! Oh hurt! A burning jolt of electrical pain went ripping up my tail section, and for a moment I thought I would yelp. I mean, that’s what most dogs do when their tails get stepped on, right? It’s a perfectly natural, healthy reaction to the indignity and so forth of being trampled, but this time . . . no, I couldn’t allow myself to yelp or squall or make any sound at all.