I could see that this was killing him. My campaign to win the heart of Sally May was working to perfection, and Kitty had no idea what to do about it.
He came slithering through the snow, and by now the pupils of his eyes had widened. That’s what cats do when they’re mad, you know. The dark part of their eye gets big, revealing thoughts that are just as dark as their eyes. Oh, and his ears were still pinned down on his head.
“I know what you’re doing, Hankie, but it won’t work.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Pete. Are you suggesting . . .”
“You’ll find out.”
I didn’t have time to wonder what that might mean. The back door opened and out came Little Alfred. And, holy smokes, even at a distance, I could see that he was carrying two strips of raw bacon draped over his left index finger. Drover and I exchanged looks of anticipation. We both began to quiver with excitement.
Drover said, “I don’t know if I can sit still for this. I can already smell that bacon. Can I have a piece?”
“Are you nuts? I earned that by . . . okay, what the heck, I’ll share.”
“Gosh, thanks. Boy, I love bacon.”
“Me too, but hold your position. Remember: manners and discipline.”
Drover clamped his jaws together and put on a brave face. “Okay, I’ll try.”
“That’s the spirit.”
We watched as Little Alfred approached us on the snow-covered sidewalk. Pete was also watching, and as the lad walked up to the gate, Pete struck like a jungle tiger. He dived through the air and snatched our bacon strips out of Alfred’s hand, and scampered away.
There we sat, Drover and I, waiting for the awards ceremony to begin, and suddenly the party was over. Nothing remained of our hopes and dreams but Kitty’s tracks in the snow and the lingering aroma of luscious, yummy bacon.
I was too stunned to speak. Drover broke into tears. “He stole our bacon! Pete stole our reward for being good dogs! I wanted that bacon so bad, I can’t stand it!” Through his tears, he stared at me. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
My mind was reeling. One voice inside my head screamed for revenge, but another voice was urging calm and restraint. “Stay calm, Drover. Let’s try to work within the system.”
“The system!” he squawled. “Systems don’t work on cats because they cheat!”
“I know, I know, but let’s hold our formation and see what happens.”
Little Alfred’s face had turned a deep shade of red and he beamed a hot glare toward the iris patch, where the thief had taken refuge. We could hear him smacking and slobbering as he devoured our Bacon Award.
Pete, that is, not Little Alfred. Pete was smacking and so-forthing.
Little Alfred raised a fist and shook it at the cat. “I’m going to tell my mom!” And with that threat hanging in the crisp air, the boy stomped back into the house. Moments later, we heard his voice. “Mom, Pete stole the bacon from my doggies!”
I shot a glance at Drover. “You see? The wheels of justice are beginning to turn.”
“Well, I hope they run over Pete’s tail, the mean old thing. My heart’s just broken!”
“I understand, son, but try to be brave. Hold the formation and maintain Iron Discipline. This could get very interesting.”
We waited. I kept one eye on the iris patch and the other on the back door. Pete’s face poked around the side of the house. He was licking his lips and . . . you probably guessed . . . smirking.
He saw us and waved a paw. “The bacon was delicious, Hankie. I hope you didn’t mind sharing it. You’re such a nice doggie.”
I wasn’t sure I could hold myself back. My vision went red. I could feel pressure behind my eyes. I could hear thunder rumbling deep inside the volcano of my . . . something. My heart, I suppose. I could hear the rumbling of molten lava and the hissing of steam.
And then, beside me, Drover said, “Git ’im, Hankie, beat ’im up!”
I almost lost control and surrendered myself to the savage instincts that were urging me to make salad out of the scheming little cat, but just then the back door burst open.
You may not know this, but we dogs have learned to read Sally May’s mood by the sound of the screen door opening. When it merely opens and closes, she’s in a good mood. When it flies open and hits the side of the house with a loud crack, we know it’s time to lay low and take cover.
The screen door opened with a loud crack. It sent a shiver down my backbone, and I had to struggle to keep from highballing it down to the calf shed—the place where on more than one occasion I had sought refuge from Sally May’s . . . uh . . . sharp tongue and broom.
Remember that song about Sally May? “When she’s angry, when she’s wrathful, the trees run for cover. And when she speaks of her displeasure, the mountains hide their faces.”
No kidding, it’s true. Hey, when Sally May’s on the peck, all life on the ranch comes to a standstill.
She came boiling out of the house. Her face showed all the signs of danger: flaming eyes, flared nostrils, lips as thin as nails. Just the sight of her turned me into a melting blob of dog hair.
Drover let out a gasp. “Oh my gosh, we’d better run!”
“Hold your ground, son. Let’s see what happens.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Shhhh. Listen.”
Her eyes darted around the yard. She saw us sitting beside the gate—two faithful dogs who had been robbed and cheated. Little Alfred joined her.
“Where is the cat?” she asked. The boy pointed toward the iris patch. She started toward the northwest corner of the house. “Pete? Kitty? Here, Kitty.”
I couldn’t believe this next part. Any dog in his right mind would have quit the country when he heard the crack of the screen door, but Pete . . . see, he’d had very little experience with the Thermonuclear side of Sally May’s personality. Oh, and he was also an incredible dumbbell.
You know what he did? He came sliding out of the iris patch, purring and rubbing against the side of the house. Then he went over to Sally May and started wrapping himself around her ankles. He had no idea what was fixing to fall on top of his head. But I did. Tee hee.
I loved it!
She reached down and snatched him off the ground. I mean, she didn’t just pick him up, she snatched him up so fast, it actually caused his smirk to evaporate. Maybe he had begun to realize that, this time, something was different.
Sally May held him up to her face. “You’re a naughty cat. You stole bacon from the dogs and you didn’t deserve it. Shame on you!”
She pitched him out into the snow. He pinned down his ears, fired an angry look at us dogs, and went scampering off to the north side of the house.
You talk about quivering with joy and excitement! I could hardly sit still. I wanted to do flips in the air and bark a rousing approval for a job well done, but, somehow, I maintained Iron Discipline and held the formation. So did Drover. I was proud of the little mutt.
Chapter Eleven: I Win the Heart of Sally May at Last!
On the porch, Little Alfred let out a yell. “Way to go, Mom!”
She walked back to the porch. Her shoulders sagged and her eyes seemed troubled. “I hate getting mad, I just hate it, but what can a woman do? I discipline the dogs when they’re bad, and it’s only fair that I do the same to the cat.” Her lip began to tremble. “But sometimes I think I’m turning into . . . a wicked witch. Just look at me!”
And then, before our very eyes and ears, she sang a song. No kidding. Here’s how it went.
What Is a Woman to Do?
This morning I thought that our Hank was a villain.
I screamed at him, chased him, and wanted to kill him.
I hefted a snowball and managed to drill him.
But what is a woman to do?
I’ve hinted to
Loper to tie him up tight.
The beast, after all, isn’t overly bright.
But tying up dogs just doesn’t seem right.
So what is a woman to do?
My needs are so small, just order, that’s all.
The same as you’d find in a school.
If I dared relax and ignored these attacks,
The powers of darkness would rule.
And look at me now, I scolded the cat!
My anger spilled out like a boiling vat.
I know it’s my job, but I feel like a rat.
But what is a woman to do?
They test me and try me, they’ve made me a cop.
But if I don’t do it, then where will it stop?
This ranch is my home, an asylum it’s not.
So what is a woman to do?
Am I losing my touch or asking too much?
After all, I’m not running a zoo.
I’d rather not nag,
They all think I’m a hag,
But that’s what a woman must do.
Pretty spooky song, huh? I thought so. I mean, let’s face it, she had mentioned my name, right? And that made me nervous, even though I had changed my ways and become a model of good behavior.
When she’d finished, Sally May beamed dark glares around the yard, then let her gaze drift down to her son. “And that goes for you too, young man. This is my home and we’ll follow my rules. If that makes me the wicked witch, so be it.”
The boy nodded. “Okay, Mom, but you’re not a wicked witch.”
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and her eyes softened. “Thank you, sweetie, but you’re probably the only one on this ranch who thinks so.”
“Can I give the doggies their bacon now? They’re still waiting.”
She blinked several times and turned her eyes on . . . yipes . . . on us. I felt as though someone had snapped on a powerful searchlight . . . or an X-ray machine and pointed it right at my heart. Gulp. Did I have any naughty thoughts swimming through the dark waters of my soul? Because if I did, she would see them.
She always saw naughty thoughts. There was no hiding from her. That gaze had a way of prowling through a dog’s heart and mind, looking in every drawer, every closet, every cookie jar, until she found a naughty thought.
I felt myself shrinking and melting under the glare of her X-ray vision. My head sank. One eye began to twitch. Suddenly, I was seized by a powerful urge to . . . well, bite myself on the tail, if you can believe that. Why? I don’t know. She just does that to me . . . those eyes . . .
But then . . . she smiled! Whew! I dared to tap out a slow rhythm with my tail. Then she said, “They’ve earned their bacon, and I’ll give it to them myself.”
She went into the house. I almost fainted with relief. So far, so good. Moments later she returned, this time opening the screen door without throwing it back against the side of the house. This was looking better and better. She came down the sidewalk, holding two strips of raw bacon on a paper towel.
I felt a surge of Bacon Lust roaring through my body. Would I be able to contain myself and hold back my savage instincts? I wasn’t sure I could. This was new territory for me—eating raw bacon with manners.
She came through the yard gate and stood in front of us. A peculiar smile rippled across her lips as she looked into my eyes. “Hank, I don’t know what’s come over you. This is quite a switch for us, isn’t it? Why, this very morning I wanted to . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.
Uh . . . yes ma’am. It was quite a switch.
“Well, I’m proud of you for learning some manners. And for not beating up the cat, even though he probably deserved it. You’ve been a good dog, Hank, and here is your reward.”
Did you hear that? Sally May called me a good dog! WOWEEE!
Maybe you think I was overpowered by Bacon Lust, snatched the bacon out of her fingers, wolfed it down, and ruined everything. No sir. I had come this far and I had no intention of messing things up. And, hey, I even let Drover have the second piece of bacon.
With a tongue that was as soft as rabbit fur . . . oops, let’s change that. With a tongue as soft as velvet, I coaxed the strip of bacon from her outstretched fingers. I saw her eyebrows rise. She was impressed. Gently and tenderly, I eased the bacon out of her fingers, brushed it into my mouth, and . . . you won’t believe this part . . . chewed it twenty-three times.
Yes sir, twenty-five times. No gulping, no gagging on half-chewed bacon, no throwing up in front of the Lady of the House. After chewing it twenty-seven times, only then did I pull the Flush Lever and send it sliding down the pipes to my awaiting stomach.
Pretty amazing, huh? You bet. Drover did pretty well too, although his eating wasn’t quite as refined as mine. But the important thing is that Sally May was overwhelmed. After years and years of trying, I had finally managed to win her approval!
She gave each of us a rub on the head. But then . . . oops . . . she smelled her hand and made a face. I held my breath and waited for the hammer to fall. But she smiled and said, “Well, every journey begins with the first step,” and went back into the house.
Whew! The awards ceremony was over and it had been a huge success. Okay, she had made one little reference to Dog Odor, but she had left the ceremony wearing a smell.
A smile, that is. She had left wearing a smile.
I turned to Drover. “Congratulations, son. This may be the Security Divison’s finest hour. We’ve not only won back the heart of Sally May, but we’ve delivered the cat a crushing defeat.”
Drover was as excited as I was. “Yeah, hee hee, Sally May called him a naughty cat. I never thought I’d hear that.”
“It was delicious, wasn’t it? I only wish we had it on film, so that we could watch it over and over—Pete getting the scolding he has deserved for years! Ho ho, hee hee, ha ha! And speaking of Mister Kitty Moocher . . .”
I swept my gaze across the yard, expecting to see Pete sulking and glaring daggers at us. Hmmm. He was nowhere in sight. I pushed myself up and trotted around the north side of the fence, where I had a clear view of the iris patch.
Drover followed me. “Gosh, he’s gone. I wonder where he went.”
“Oh, he’s probably off pouting. You know cats. They can’t take a telling, they refuse to accept punishment or any kind of discipline. But do we care?”
“Well . . .”
“No, we don’t care, Drover. What matters is that we delivered him a smashing defeat, and now we can go back to the office and bask in the glory of our triumph. This is a great day for the ranch!”
Proud and victorious, we formed a column and marched down to the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex. There, we scratched up our gunnysacks, did the usual Three Tunes Return . . . Three Turns Routine, let us say, and collapsed.
Could two dogs ask for more? No sir. This was the very best that life had to offer: a warm gunnysack bed, success in battle, victory over an old enemy, Sally May’s approval, and the Coveted Bacon Award.
WOW!
We spent the rest of the evening re-living the events of the day and . . . might as well say it . . . gloating. Yes, we indulged ourselves in two solid hours of shameless gloating. I doubt that history could provide an example of two dogs who gloated more or enjoyed it more than we did.
It was absolutely delicious—two hours of nonstop gloating and bragging, without one shred of guilt or shame. We giggled and snickered, guffawed and snorted, slapped each other on the back, and roasted Pete’s name over the fires of . . . something. The fires of our happiness, I suppose, although that doesn’t sound exactly right, “fires of happiness.”
The fires of our devilish delight. That’s better.
Anyway, we spent the rest of the evening in wild celebration and by sundown, we were both exhausted. I had never realized that gloa
ting could be so tiring. Spent and exhausted, we found ourselves staring into each other’s eyes. A deep silence moved over us.
Drover broke the silence. “Well . . . what do we do now?”
“I’m not sure. I guess we’ve celebrated as much as we can celebrate.”
“Gosh, I hate to quit. I wish there was more.”
“Yes, me too, but all good things must come to an end.”
“How come?”
“Well . . . because they do, Drover. If good things lasted forever . . .” Suddenly I had a thought. “Wait a second. Maybe there is a way we can stretch this out.”
“Oh goodie! How?”
I rose to my feet. “Drover, we’ve spent the afternoon gloating to ourselves, but we’ve neglected the highest and most refined form of gloating. There’s a whole new world of gloating we haven’t experienced.”
“There is?”
“We haven’t gloated in front of Pete! See, we could be sharing the joy of our victory with Pete . . . and making him miserable!”
Drover grinned. “Gosh, I never thought of that. Hee hee. That would be even better, wouldn’t it?”
“Indeed it would. It would be gloating multiplied by gloating, gloating squared. I don’t know why we didn’t think of this sooner.”
“Well, we tried but he was gone.”
“Good point. Well, he’ll be back at the iris patch by now. Come on, son, let’s go find the little sneak.”
We left the office and went streaking down to the yard gate. There, I called his name. “Pete? Kitty? Hey, Pete, report to the yard gate at once. We’ve got something we want to share with you.” Drover and I exchanged winks and snickers. We waited. “Pete?” No answer. “Pete, this is the Head of Ranch Security speaking. I am ordering you to report to the gate!”
Nothing. Not a sound.
Drover and I exchanged puzzled glances. “Gosh, what do we do now?”
I plunked myself down in the snow. “We’ll sit right here and wait. I mean, who does that cat think he is? He’ll show up, and when he does, he’ll hear plenty about this.”
The Case of Twisted Kitty Page 7
