The Case of the Dinosaur Birds
John R. Erickson
Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes
Maverick Books, Inc.
Publication Information
MAVERICK BOOKS
Published by Maverick Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070
Phone: 806.435.7611
www.hankthecowdog.com
First published in the United States of America by Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2009.
Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2012
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Copyright © John R. Erickson, 2009
All rights reserved
Maverick Books, Inc. Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59188-154-4
Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Dedication
To Gene Edward Veith, Jr., scholar, author, teacher, and friend
Contents
Chapter One We Assemble for a Scrap Event
Chapter Two Strange Birds in the Sky
Chapter Three My Bacon Is Burgled
Chapter Four Everything You Want to Know About Dinosaurs
Chapter Five Drover’s Shocking Report
Chapter Six We Send Out a Scout Patrol
Chapter Seven I Meet a Real Dinosaur Bird
Chapter Eight I Try to Help a Family in Need
Chapter Nine Drover Gets Thrown in Jail
Chapter Ten We Find the Answer to Life
Chapter Eleven Double Trouble
Chapter Twelve Justice Triumphs Again!
Chapter One: We Assemble for a Scrap Event
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. They were creatures like we’d never seen before. I had no idea who they were, where they’d come from, or what they were doing on my ranch; but I knew right away that they didn’t belong to this world.
I also had reason to believe . . . Wait, hold everything, stop, halt. I’m not sure I should go public with this next piece of information. I mean, a guy should never put too much scary stuff at the first part of the story.
Why? The little children. You know where I stand on that issue. I don’t mind giving the kids some excitement or even a little scare now and then, but I’ve got problems jumping into deep, scary stuff right away.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You think you can handle the scary stuff because you’ve survived stories about the Silver Monster Bird, the Phantom in the Mirror, the Halloween Ghost, the Vampire Cat, and all the other monsters and goblins we’ve encountered on this ranch. Well, maybe you survived those deals, but don’t let it cloud your judgment.
The truth is, you don’t know what’s coming in this story but I do, and I’m not ready to reveal any information about Prehistoric Dinosaur Birds, so don’t even ask. In the first place, you wouldn’t believe me; and in the second place, if you believed me, you’d be too scared to read the rest of the story.
So there’s Ground Rule Number One: no mention of . . . Wait a second. Did I already . . . Okay, here’s Ground Rule Number Two: In the event that I already flubbed up and broke Ground Rule Number One, you will disregard anything I might have said. You heard nothing about any kind of Unmentionable Something or Other.
That should take care of it, and now we’re ready to mush on with the story.
It all began one morning. No, wait. It all began one evening; yes, I’m sure it was evening . . . or was it in the middle of the day? You know, I can’t remember when it began and I don’t care, because it began sometime and that’s all we need to know. If it hadn’t begun, we wouldn’t be talking about it.
Now . . . what were we talking about? Hmmm. I know it was important, and it was right on the tip of my tock . . . the tip of my tongue, let us say. That’s usually the best place to leave things, on the tick of your tock, because you can always come back later and find it. I mean, how can you lose something on the tang of your tongue?
It’s impossible. On the other hand . . . you know, this is really embarrassing. All at once I’ve just . . . uh . . . drawn a blank. I have no idea what we were talking about, yet I have this feeling that it was very, very important.
I know what’s causing this. Years of working around Drover has caused deposits of plaque to form around my brain cells. You know what plaque does to your teeth, right? Bad stuff. It causes tooth decay and root rot, so you can imagine what it does to brain cells. It causes us to babble and wander, so don’t forget to brush those teeth twice a day and use dental floss.
And don’t swallow the floss. Floss is string, and nobody needs dental string in his gizzard. Ask a guy who knows. I once swallowed a piece of string that had a fishhook tied to it and . . .
How did we get on the subject of string and fishhooks? This is crazy. You know, before I began working with Drover, I had no trouble carrying on a normal conversation or following a train of thought, but now . . .
Wait! I just remembered. Forget about fishhooks. It was morning on the ranch, and you know what big event happens around here in the morning. Here’s a hint. It begins with “Scrap” and ends with “Time.”
Scrap Time. Did you get the right answer? Good. Yes, in this outfit a normal day begins around eight o’clock when our Beloved Ranch Wife, Sally May, comes out the back door with a plate of luscious breakfast scraps.
Even on a bad day, Scrap Time brings meaning and focus into a dog’s life. It gives us a break from the crushing routine of running the ranch’s Security Division twenty-four hours a day, and we’re talking about crinimal investigations, barking at the mailman, Chicken House Patrol, Monster Watch, and all the other things we do around here.
Heavy responsibility, and it’s very important that we have a few precious moments every morning to, you know, keep ourselves pumped and excited about Life, work, and all the so-forth.
At an ordinary Scrap Event, we can expect a few morsels of scrambled eggs and several pieces of burned toast. But on a good day, we’ll get egg scraps, burned toast, plus five or six fatty, juicy ends of bacon.
You know where I stand on the Issue of Bacon. I love the stuff, absolutely love it, and that’s why Drover and I always try to arrive early for Scrap Events. We want to be first in line so that we can protect our bacon scraps from the local cat.
Have we discussed cats? Maybe not. I don’t like ’em, and I especially don’t like the one we’re stuck with on this ranch. Pete. He’s a sneak and a slacker, and he spends all his waking hours lusting for fatty, juicy ends of bacon.
So do I, but it’s different when a dog does it. Cats are pure gluttons, see, whereas your higher rank of dogs are more refined. We play by the Rules of Good Behavior. We wait our turn in line. Cats don’t even know that rules exist, and given the slightest opportunity, they will cheat every time.
Show me a cat and I’ll show you a cheater.
That’s why it’s so important that we dogs arrive early at our Scrap Events. It gives us an opportunity to set the proper tone: rules and manners; no scuffling, hissing, pushing, shoving, or bickering over the scraps.
Pretty impressive, huh? You be
t. I mean, food is important, but we can’t allow it to rule our lives. If a guy wins all the scraps but loses his poise in the process . . . well, what’s the point? He’s no better than your average cat.
And speaking of cats, when Drover and I arrived at the yard gate—five minutes early, mind you—we found that the cat was already there, sitting with his tail wrapped around his backside, beaming a gluttonous look toward the house, and purring like a little . . . something. Like a greedy little motorboat.
When he heard us coming, he turned and flashed his usual smirk. “My, my, it’s Hankie the Wonder Dog . . . and you’re late.”
I thundered up to him. “We’re not late, Kitty. We came five minutes early so that we could be first in line.”
“Well, darn the luck. I guess it didn’t work.”
I stuck my nose in his face. “I guess it did work, you little pestilence.”
“No, no, Hankie. As you can see, I’m first in line.” He batted his eyes and snickered. “And you’re not.”
“Oh yeah? Well, here’s some bad news. The line you started was the Cheater’s Line. We’re starting a new line, the Line of Good Behavior. Go to the back of the line.”
“But Hankie, I won fair and square by coming earlier than you. Tee hee.”
“Right, and that’s cheating.”
“That’s the way the game is played, Hankie.”
“That’s the way the cheater’s game is played. This is a new game, and we’re going to play by the rules.”
He licked his paw with a long stroke of his tongue. “Oh, really? What rules are we talking about?”
“The Rules of Justice, Pete, and Rule Number One is that cats always go last. Go to the rear. Move!”
His gaze drifted around. “You know, Hankie, this won’t work. It never works because . . .” He fluttered his eyelids. “. . . Sally May brings the scraps, and I’m her special pet. You know what will happen if you make a scene.”
I heard a growl rumbling in the darkness of my throat. “Pete, you’re despicable.”
“I know, and sometimes it really bothers me. But not today. Tee hee.”
For a moment of heartbeats, my finger twitched on the Launch Button. It would have been so easy to dive right into the middle of the little snot and give him the thrashing he so richly deserved. But at the last second, I canceled the launch and took a step backward. I mean, one of us had to show some maturity, right?
“Okay, Pete, just this once I’m going to let it slide.”
“I thought you’d see it that way.”
“And I hope you get indigestion.”
At that very moment, the back door opened and out stepped . . . holy smokes, I couldn’t believe my good fortune . . . out stepped my very best pal in the whole world.
Little Alfred!
Do you see the meaning of this? Heh heh. I did, and so did Kitty-Kitty.
Chapter Two: Strange Birds in the Sky
See, here’s the deal. Little Alfred was a fine young man, fair and honest, and best of all he had no history of pampering cats, unlike his mother who . . .
I would be the last dog in the world to say a critical word about the Lady of the House, but let’s be frank. There had been times in our long and stormy relationship when I had looked into Sally May’s eyes and had gotten the feeling that, well, she wasn’t fond of dogs.
Or was it just me? Surely not. No, our troubled relationship grew out of the fact that she had a weakness for cats, and that’s a very sad state of affairs. People who don’t understand the true crooked nature of cats . . . Maybe we’d better leave this subject alone.
The point is that Little Alfred wasn’t as likely to fall for Pete’s trickery; and when Kitty saw him coming out the door with the plate of scraps, that insolent smirk on his face dropped dead. He swung his eyes around to me and gave me a hateful glare.
I was beside myself with joy that the Cause of Justice had been served. “Hey, Pete, what do you say now, huh? Ha ha ha! Where’s Sally May?”
“This isn’t funny, Hankie.”
“Of course it is. It’s hilarious. Go to the back of the line.” He didn’t move, so I did what any normal dog would have done. I gave him a loud burst of self-righteous barking. We call it our Train Horns Application.
BWONK!
Heh heh. I love doing that, especially when Sally May isn’t around with her broom. Kitty responded just as I had hoped. He jumped three feet in the air, turned wrong side out, hissed, spit, shrieked, and humped his back. Okay, maybe he landed one lucky punch with his claws, but I hardly even . . .
Actually, it stung like crazy, but never mind. The important thing is that a spoiled, pampered, rinky-dink little ranch cat had been humbled and the Cause of Justice had been served.
Kitty gave me the Cobra Eye and began slinking toward the rear of the line, the very spot in Life where every cat belongs. “Very well, Hankie, but things have a way of coming back around.”
“Do they? That’s great. This time I gave you Train Horns, and next time I’ll show you Ocean Liner Horn. I guarantee you won’t like it.”
At that point, I whirled away from the sulking cat and prepared myself for the Scrap Event. You’ll be impressed by this. See, a lot of your ordinary dogs would have gone into a wild celebration—jumping around, thrashing their tails, barking, drooling, making a big scene.
Not me. I made a special effort to control my savage instincts because . . . well, when you know that you’ve won the big game, you don’t need to gloat. Gloating can be a lot of fun, but it’s only icicles on the cake. Winning is enough.
And so it was that I turned to the control panel in my mind and began flipping switches.
Leaps and Dives: OFF.
Wild, Exuberant Swings on the Tail Section: OFF.
Dripping Tongue: OFF.
Eyes Blazing with Food Lust: OFF.
As the boy came down the sidewalk, I sat on the ground beside the yard gate, first in line, a perfect doggly gentleman waiting to receive his scrap award.
He gave me a smile. “Hi, Hankie. You want some skwaps?”
I was trembling with excitement but didn’t let it show. He opened the gate and held the plate under my . . . BACON! Holy smokes, I had won the lottery! Six or seven fatty, juicy, fragrant ends of bacon!
Yes, I wanted scraps, but I would be a gentleman about it. I was first in line, so there was no need to behave like a slob. I held tight to my emotions and beamed him a look that said “Just any morsel will be fine.”
He was impressed. He should have been. He gave me a pat on the head and looked at the food line, which consisted of me first, Drover second, and Kitty O’Glutton on the tail end. Tee hee.
“Okay, y’all, make a line along the fence, and don’t eat till I give the signal.”
Yes sir! I was already in the right place, so Drover and Kitty pushed and shoved to get the slots to my right. We ended up with a new line: me on the left, Drover in the middle, and Pete on the far right. We all turned our eyes toward the boy.
He gave his head a nod. “That’s good. Now, since Hankie was first in line, I’m going to give him the bacon.” He scraped the bacon onto the ground in front of me.
To my right, I heard odd noises. Drover let out a moan, and Pete made the sound cats make when they’re very unhappy—the yowl that reminds you of a police siren. He was hating this; and while I didn’t wish to be overbearing, I allowed myself to whisper, “Something wrong, Pete? Talk to me, pal. Hey, if you’ve got any gripes about the service, call the manager. Raise a fuss, file a complaint, don’t be bashful.”
The look he gave me would have scalded the feathers off of thirteen chickens. He was mad, fellers, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Hee hee.
Alfred moved on down the line. He scraped some egg scraps in front of Drover and moved on to Pete. “Welp, alls that’s left is a bisc
uit, Pete. You want a biscuit?” Pete let loose a pitiful whine. Alfred shrugged. “I don’t think Hankie will share his bacon.”
Exactly right. Hankie would NOT share his bacon with the little moocher. If Kitty wanted bacon, he should have come early and waited in line like the rest of us.
Well, the scraps had been distributed, and all that remained was for Alfred to give us the signal to start gobbling . . . uh, eating, let us say. My whole body quivered with antsippitation as he lifted his right hand into the air.
“Ready?”
I froze, waiting for his hand to come down. It didn’t. Instead, his gaze rose up to the sky, and he said, “Wowee, look at those birds!”
A voice in my mind cried out, “Wowee, forget the birds; let’s eat!”
But his gaze was locked on the sky. “They look like pterodoctyles—dinosaur birds!” He dashed back to the porch. “Mom, come look!”
Rats. Breakfast had been put on hold. So, with nothing better to do, I lifted my gaze and studied the objects in the sky. At first I thought they were buzzards, large birds that move through the air with slow flaps of their wings.
But a closer inspection revealed something else. They had long necks that stuck out in front and long skinny legs that stuck out behind, and . . . their beaks! My goodness, they had incredibly long beaks.
These were not buzzards or hawks or owls or any other kind of bird that lived on my ranch. I had never seen a . . . what had Alfred called them? Terra-dog-tails? I had never seen a Terradogtail, but Alfred had several books on dinosaurs, and by George, if the boy said those were Terradogtail Dinosaur Birds, maybe they were.
Sally May came out the door, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked up into the sky. “Well, my stars, I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“They’re pterodoctyles, Mom, I’ve seen ’em in pictures!”
She laughed. “Well, I think pterodactyls are extinct.” She noticed us waiting at the yard fence. “Sweetie, your little friends are waiting for their breakfast. You’d better let them eat. When Daddy gets home, we’ll ask him about the birds.”
The Case of the Dinosaur Birds Page 1
