Jump? Was she serious? Jump, with a two-hundred-pound face? I didn’t think so, but I did manage to wag my tail and give her a mournful look.
She heaved a sigh. “I guess I’ll have to pick you up and load you. I’ll try to be gentle.”
She wrapped her arms around my chest and gave a mighty lift and, my goodness, you should have heard the groan! She got me off the ground but maybe that threw her off balance just a little bit, because she staggered two steps backward and we all ended up on the ground, with me on top.
Well, the least I could do was to give her a lick on the face for her effort. I mean, I really appreciated . . . I tried to give her a lick of appreciation but, alas, my face was swollen so badly that the old tongue just wasn’t working and . . .
I guess I drooled on her. A little bit. My face was very drooly, see, because that’s what happens when your face and mouth are swollen up, you can’t control the flow of . . .
Well, she didn’t like the drool, I guess, and after some kicking and squirming, she made it back to her feet. She tore off five paper towels and wiped her face and arms.
Panting for breath, she turned back to me. “Hank, will you please jump up into the car? Please?”
Okay, I would try, but it wasn’t a car. No dog in history had ever managed to load himself into a pickup with a two-hundred-pound face, but for Sally May, I would try.
And by George, it worked. Somehow, against tremendous odds, I dragged myself into the cab and collapsed immediately on the floor. I was worn to a frazzle.
She climbed in behind me and slammed the door. “Alfred, sit down and don’t say one word until we get to town. Molly, don’t touch anything. This whole pickup is poisonous.”
“Mom, I smell bananas,” said Alfred.
“It’s peaches, dear, peach-scented spray.” She stared at the instrument panel. “How do we start this thing?” She spotted the ignition key and turned it. We lurched forward and she let out a scream. “A-a-a-a-a!”
Alfred grinned. “It’s a stick shift, Mom. You have to put in the cwutch.”
She burned him up with a pair of flaming eyes, then said, “Yes, darling. I know that now.”
She took a grip on the steering wheel and plunged her left foot to the . . . oof! . . . floor. Trouble was that I happened to be down there in the vicinity of the clutch pedal.
“Hank, move!”
Huh? Me? Gee whiz, I thought I’d done pretty well just to load myself into the derned pickup and I didn’t know she . . .
“MOVE! GET OUT OF THE WAY!!”
Okay, okay. I could take a hint, but it wasn’t easy, let me tell you. I crawled and squirmed and managed to drag my wounded self a few inches to the east, enough so that she could push the clutch pedal to the floor.
She pushed it to the floor and started the motor. She seized the gearshift lever in her right hand, pushed it straight up, and popped the clutch. We lurched forward: chug, chug, chug!
“Hank, you’re in the way again.”
Huh? Me? Hey, I had just moved and . . .
“I can’t reach the gas pedal. You’re going to have to move out of my way. Alfred, can you get this dog out from under my feet? Hank, go sit on the other side. Go on, boy, be a good dog. Hank, MOVE OVER!”
She seemed to be kicking at me with her foot, a clue that she was pretty serious about getting me moved out from under her business. Okay, fine. I just hadn’t realized . . . I had taken some comfort in being close to her, don’t you see, and moving around in my condition wasn’t all that much fun and . . .
Yes, somehow I summoned up the energy and strength to drag my wounded, swollen carcass around the gearshift lever and move it to the other side of the cab.
I collapsed at Little Alfred’s feet and gave the boy a mournful gaze. He laughed.
“You wook funny, Hankie, wiff your face all puffed up.”
Thanks, pal. “Funny” didn’t even come close to describing how I felt, but I was glad that somebody was able to enjoy my snakebite.
Anything to make the kids happy, I always say.
And so it was that we made our emergency trip into town in Slim’s pickup. Little did I know that . . . well, you’ll find out soon enough, but only if you keep on reading.
Chapter Seven: Molly Eats Bugs
We went up the hill in front of the house in first gear, known in the trade as “Grandma Low.” By the time we reached the top, Sally May had the motor wound up so tight that it was screaming, yet we were not moving very fast.
It was then that she began to realize that the pickup had four gears, and that she would have to do some shifting. With a grim expression on her face, she took a double grip on the steering wheel, pushed the clutch pedal to the floor, reached for the gearshift lever with her right hand, and pulled it straight down.
The gears began to grind. We coasted to a stop as she continued to search for second gear. At last she found it and popped the clutch. That sent everyone’s head snapping back, and the pickup leaped forward.
It was a little rough, but we were on our way to town.
At the mailbox, she turned left onto the county road. She was in third gear by then and probably should have shifted down to second, but she was accustomed to driving an automatic transmission instead of a standard stick shift, and she didn’t shift down.
I noticed this, and so did Little Alfred. He even offered some advice. “Hey, Mom, you’re s’posed to shift the gears.”
“Honey, I’ll take care of the driving. I’m the parent and you’re the child, and if you don’t mind, I’d rather not hear your commentary all the way to town.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“I know that you’re trying to help, but this is not the time or place for that. But thanks, anyway.”
“Okay, Mom, but you’re s’posed to shift the gears.”
“Alfred, hush.”
The U-joints clanged, the tappits rattled, the motor wheezed and groaned and jerked, and slowly, very slowly, we pulled away from the mailbox. So far, so good.
We came to the first cattleguard and bounced across it. Little clouds of dust drifted down from the ceiling, and seven crazed miller moths came flying out of the heater vents on the dash.
Have we discussed miller moths? I really dislike them a lot. Or to put it another way, I HATE ’em. I mean, here is a bug that can’t even fly in a straight line! They fly in those crazy spirals, bump into things, and somehow they always manage to get into your face.
I have been known to watch them for minutes at a time, and then to snap them right out of the air. Shooting down millers is very satisfying, but not for long because they’re covered with this powder, this brown dust that tastes awful.
“He who biteth a miller moth soon spitteth.”
Have you ever heard that old saying? Maybe not, because I just made it up, heh heh, and I think it’s pretty good. It’s definitely true.
I love to blast ’em out of the sky, but the taste that follows is no fun at all. It makes a guy have second thoughts about blasting them out of the sky, is what it does, and this time, in the pickup, I merely observed.
I observed them flying their stupid spirals, bouncing off the windshield and the roof and the window glass; accomplishing absolutely nothing, contributing nothing to the good of the world; buzzing around my face and leaving a trail of miller dust everywhere they went—in other words, being totally worthless.
I watched this with mounting rage and irritation, but chose not to snap them out of the air. Why? Simple. First, my face was much too swollen to be an effective snapping device, and second, I had no wish to repeat the follies of my past. I had already learned my lessons on biting millers: Don’t.
Well, Sally May coughed on the dust, fanned the air, and managed to bat two of the millers out the window. “I will never drive this pickup again, never! Alfred, try not to breathe the dust.
”
“What should I bweeve?”
“I don’t know, but try not to breathe the dust. Stick your head out the window until it settles.”
He stuck his head out the window. At that same moment, one of the crazed millers landed in Baby Molly’s lap. I watched this closely to see what she would do. I had a feeling that she might . . .
Uh-huh, she did. She snatched up the miller in her fat little fist and ate it. She chewed it three times, made a sour face, and spit it out. The miller ended up hanging by a wing on the point of her chin.
I saw the whole thing and had a pretty strong suspicion that Sally May wouldn’t approve. I whined and thumped my tail, which succeeded in pulling her eyes away from the road.
When she saw that brown ring of miller dust around her baby daughter’s mouth, and the dead bug hanging off her chin, she almost had a stroke and a wreck at the same time.
“Molly, nasty miller, nasty! Spit, spit.”
By the time Mom had gotten all the nastiness wiped off of Molly’s mouth and chin, the pickup had wandered off the side of the road and into the ditch and was heading toward a big cottonwood tree.
Alfred saw it coming. “Hey, Mom, you’re heading for a twee.”
Sally May jerked the wheel back to the left and got us back on the road. “Alfred, I saw the tree. I’m not blind.”
“Yeah, but you were fixing to have a weck.”
“We were NOT fixing to have a wreck, and don’t tell your mother how to drive. Molly ate a bug.”
Molly laughed and blew bubbles of spit. Alfred gave her a disgusted look.
“Mowee, don’t eat bugs. That’s dumb.”
“Honey, it’s not dumb, it’s just unsanitary. And take my word for it, you ate plenty of bugs when you were Molly’s age.” The pickup had begun to stray toward the ditch again and she jerked it back. “Now, let’s all sit back and relax and try to enjoy the ride to town, and let Mommy concentrate on her driving.”
Hear, hear.
Sally May took a double grip on the wheel, turned her eyes to the road ahead, and let out a big breath of air. We rode in near silence to the main highway.
You may not believe this, but when silence finally fell over our little group, I began thinking of a song about kids eating bugs. It was a pretty cute song, and it’s too bad I don’t remember it.
You would have enjoyed it.
Boy, I hate to forget a good song.
Should have written it down, I guess, only dogs don’t write.
Wait a minute, hold everything. It just came back to me. It’s called “Eating Bugs Is Lots of Fun.”
Eating Bugs Is Lots of Fun
I know that some amongst you will more than likely think
That eating bugs is yucky, they’re ugly and they stink.
But stop and reconsider before you make a leap.
The bug supply’s unlimited, and boy, they’re really cheap.
Eating bugs is lots of fun,
It won’t require a hotdog bun.
Nourishment for everyone.
Eating bugs is lots of fun.
You’re s’posed to drink a glass of juice before your breakfast meal.
Well, bugs are juicy as can be, the price is just a steal.
You’ll find no cheaper protein than a cricket served for lunch,
And with every bite of cricket, you get a pleasant crunch.
Eating bugs is lots of fun,
It won’t require a hotdog bun.
Nourishment for everyone.
Eating bugs is lots of fun.
But here’s a few precautions, in planning your attack.
Beware of wasps and scorpions ’cause they will bite you back.
And earthworms are a special case, they have no legs or toes,
And if you try to eat ’em fast, they’ll wrap around your nose.
Eating bugs is lots of fun,
It won’t require a hotdog bun.
Nourishment for everyone.
Eating bugs is lots of fun.
Bugs are better for you than corndogs on a stick.
The only disadvantage is that bugs can make you sick.
Don’t eat too many june bugs or miller moths or flies,
’Cause if you do not chew them up, they’ll tickle your insides.
Eating bugs is lots of fun,
It won’t require a hotdog bun.
Nourishment for everyone.
Eating bugs is lots of fun.
Pretty good song, huh? You bet it was, just full of important dietary information and good practical advice. I mean, kids like Molly are going to eat bugs anyway, so we might as well give ’em some instructions on how to do it right.
Anyways, where were we? Oh yes, we were in the pickup, rushing me and my snakebit nose to the doctor in town. How was I feeling? Very puffy, I guess you’d say, and not too full of energy. My highest ambition at that point was to lie down in a shady place and stare.
And drool. We were still getting a lot of action in the Drool Department.
Well, we came to the place where the county road runs into the main highway. Sally May stopped at the stop sign, mashed the clutch to the floor, and went looking for first gear. She missed and got third gear instead, and we went clattering and jerking out onto the highway.
A big eighteen-wheeler cattle truck came zooming around us and blew his horn. You know how that irritates me, smart aleck truck drivers blowing their horns and playing big shot on the highway. On a better day, I would have given that guy a barking he never would have remembered . . . a barking he would have remembered and never would have forgotten . . . a stern barking, in other words, but with the swollen face and everything, I had to let him go with a growl.
Sally May heard the growl, and I guess it must have sounded kind of pitiful. She reached down and scratched my ears.
“Poor old Hank. I know you don’t feel good. Now that we’re on the highway, I’ll try to make up some time—if this garbage can of Slim’s will hold together.”
Boy, I appreciated that. I mean, Sally May and I had had our ups and downs and our little periods of misunderstanding, and the fact that she would exceed the speed limit and go streaking into town just for me . . . well, that meant a lot.
And I was very sorry that the highway patrolman was waiting over the next hill, but I can’t take the blame for that.
Chapter Eight: Sally May’s Secret Crinimal Record
I don’t think we had been speeding for very long, but I guess it was long enough.
Alfred was the first to spot the officer’s car parked on the side of the road. We had just zoomed over a hill and, bingo, there he was at the bottom. All at once, the roof of his car began flashing blue and red lights, I mean, it looked like a prairie fire up there.
“Uh-oh, Mom. Wooks wike you got nailed.”
I noticed that Sally May’s eyes rolled so far up in her head that they just sort of vanished for a moment. Kind of scared me, to tell you the truth, but then she snapped out of it, pulled over to the side of the road, and came to a stop.
She left the motor running. Maybe she wasn’t sure it would start again. Good thinking.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. The officer came walking up to the window, a nice-looking fellow with brown eyes and a round face. On his shirt, he wore a little nameplate that said “Rocha.”
“Good morning, ma’am.”
Sally May managed a smile. “Good morning, Officer Rocha.”
“We’ve met before on this road, haven’t we?”
“Yes, Officer Rocha, we have met before on this road.” She took a deep breath of air. “Officer Rocha, this has been a very bad morning for me. My husband’s dog was bitten by a rattlesnake . . . ”
She pointed to me. I wagged my tail and tr
ied to squeeze up a big smile for the officer but, well, squeezed up some more foam and drool on my mouth.
“. . . and I’m trying to rush him to the veterinarian.”
“Yes ma’am. I had you clocked at sixty-two coming off that hill.”
“And I’m very sorry.”
He nodded and smiled. “May I see your driver’s license?”
Her eyes went blank for a moment, then darted to the seat beside her. “Officer Rocha, would you believe that I remembered to load the dog and the children . . . but forgot my purse?”
Lines of concern gathered on his brow. “Hmmm. That’s not so good.” He took down her name, address, and so forth, and wrote it down on a pad. “Does this pickup belong to you, ma’am?”
“No sir, it belongs to our hired hand, and I wish I’d never seen it.”
“Did you know the license tag is expired?”
There was a long, throbbing silence. “No, Officer Rocha, I didn’t know that.”
“Three months ago. And maybe you didn’t notice, but the inspection sticker is out of date too.”
“I’ll kill him.”
The officer stepped back and cocked his ear. “I’m guessing that your hired man needs a new muffler.”
“Believe me, the next time I see him, he’ll get a new muffler.”
He returned to the window. “By any chance, are you carrying proof of insurance?”
Sally May leaned across the seat and opened the glove box. It contained one greasy glove, a petrified apple, and three mud dauber nests. She slammed it shut.
“Officer Rocha, who will take care of my children while I’m in prison?”
He got a laugh out of that. And then he started writing out tickets. “Ma’am, I’m going to let you go with three warning tickets, but I’ll have to cite you for not carrying your driver’s license. Just sign all these on the line.”
She slashed her name across the bottom of all four tickets. The officer gave her copies. “When you get your dog fixed, I’d recommend that you not drive this pickup until it’s tagged and inspected.”
The Case of the Double Bumblebee Sting Page 4
